


Blue Moon

by m1masr00m



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Platonic Relationships, can be read as either, i know there are probably mistakes but i am trying to work through them i promise :0000, i love these two and they make me cry, i mean its kinda up to the reader, just watched the kibou-hen episode and am crying, probably, so have this, whether it is platonic or not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m1masr00m/pseuds/m1masr00m
Summary: ‘Honestly, I feel like…I feel like I-I can…trust you, you know?’The Imposter and Ryota Mitarai, starting at the very beginning...





	1. Chapter 1

The first time the Imposter encountered Ryota Mitarai he was a pathetic and pitiful creature, a nothing, a nobody. That clear wintery night saw the Super High School Level Imposter, once again, isolated in their darkened bedroom, gazing into the milky shaft of moonlight breaking through the window. It was on such nights that the Imposter felt particularly alone, that they battled constantly with the very genuine sensation of having no presence beyond that which they were able to prove with their own existence. By this point in their life they had become adept at fighting off these feelings of burdensome solitude that seemed to throb incessantly in their chest, yet, this evening, it felt as if the more time they spent alone with their thoughts, the more their Ultimate Talent simply ate away at them. Despite this, they enjoyed being awake in the early hours of the morning, that small window of time in which they were safe and were able to be nothing but themself. It was at night that they no longer had a borrowed identity to uphold, continuing to exist in the minds of others purely as a memory rather than a reality.

Yet late that evening (or early that morning, they were no longer sure) the Ultimate Imposter had been disturbed by noises just beyond their door. Something like whispering or muttering, almost silent but definitely there. They almost allowed themself to feel afraid; after all it wasn’t typical in the old student dorms to hear any noise past around 9 o’clock. But the Ultimate Imposter had not experienced genuine fear for as long as they could remember: when you exist as nobody and everybody at the same time it takes something spectacular, something explosive, to inspire any sentiment besides a general, all-consuming emptiness.

Their attention was truly aroused by the dull thud that came next, which they were certain occurred directly beyond their door. And indeed, when the Imposter hesitantly decided to take a peak, collapsed outside their room was a stranger, face down, entirely still. A boy, and a student, judging by the tanned pants of Hope’s Peak Academy’s uniform. They first thought to call out, to confirm that the boy was unconscious. When there was no reply they hesitantly took to turning him onto his back, being met by waxen skin that had a sickly green-ish grey hue. Shoulder length hair that was weak and lank and greasy fell over an alarmingly thin and gaunt face. The Imposter’s immediate impression was that this boy looked as if he had not eaten or slept in weeks. His lightly closed eyes were shaded with heavy purple eye bags that looked neither natural nor healthy.

Alarmed and immediately recognising that the student was in a bad way, the Imposter took a limp, twig-like wrist between their fingers, exhaling in relief when they found a weak yet definite pulse. They knew that the right thing to do would be to call an ambulance immediately, but this urge was entirely counteracted by the realisation that taking this stranger to the hospital would entail stretching their worn-out disguise even further, something they knew for certain to be terrible risk, especially in a hospital setting where they would most likely be required to fill out paperwork, to sign documents, to keep up an act that was already eating into borrowed time. No, it was totally out of the question. But they knew at the same time that it was wrong to just leave him there…

Not knowing exactly what to do the Imposter took the boy in their arms and felt a plunging feeling in their gut at how incredibly light he was, at how the points of his body were uncomfortably and disturbingly sharp against the softness of their stomach. Across the hall an open door instantly caught their attention, which the Imposter had to assume belonged to the student in their arms. Taking time to inspect the door’s nameplate revealed the frail boy’s name.

‘Ryota Mitarai…’ they rolled the name quietly over their tongue, feeling a certain disconnect between the sad and half-starved waste of a boy they had found passed out on the floor and his possession of a name, an identity. Tethered to "Ryota Mitarai" was something the Imposter had never owned in their entire life; an identity that was constant and genuine, that wasn’t an ephemeral imitation of somebody else’s. The Ultimate Imposter had not felt a sense of their own identity in years. Who they were beneath their huge and intimidating frame had become entirely unknown to them, lost in a sea of borrowed personalities that all existed within them at the same time. They experienced a surge of aching jealousy towards this stranger. Jealousy that he was able to live as himself, that he lived by his own name and his own identity. They immediately scolded themself and silenced the thoughts swirling dangerously in their head: how shameful to allow themself to become angry and jealous at this poor, unconscious boy that they knew absolutely nothing about!

The Imposter decided hesitantly to take Mitarai back to his room. They didn’t really know what to do with him, just that it was just as out of the question to leave him in the hall as it was to call an ambulance. Yes, the Imposter had to protect themself, but they refused to let this come at the price of the protection of a boy that was clearly in need of it. Simply entering a stranger’s room without permission made them feel uneasy, but they figured he would be happy, when he eventually woke up, to find himself in his own bed. They delicately set the unconscious teen down onto his bed and pulled the bedsheets over his emaciated frame. They figured that, if they were entirely unwilling to take him to the hospital, which they absolutely were, the only thing they could do was wait for the boy to wake up. The Imposter reassured themself that, if Mitarai hadn’t regained consciousness after an hour, that was when they would definitely call an ambulance. Obviously they felt incredibly irresponsible for not doing more to help him, and in the back of their head crept dark and unsettling thoughts of what could end up happening to the stranger if his condition was something serious. But they simply couldn’t risk escorting him to the hospital.

The Imposter took a moment to take in their surroundings: the room looked meticulously organised, in fact, looking around, there was barely anything in it at all; a desk, a bed, a mirror, a small wardrobe – items that came with every Hope’s Peak student bedroom. What stood out instantly, however, was the abundance of high-tech looking gear on Mitarai’s desk. Stuff that, in the dark, wasn’t really discernible as anything other than a cluster of shiny black boxes. Piles of crisp and pristine sheets of paper sat in somewhat scattered piles next to the equipment, alongside multiple pots of stationary. The Imposter approached the mildly cluttered desk, or at least, it looked cluttered in a room that was practically spotless.

‘Is this…a drawing tablet?’

Inspecting one pot of stationary closely revealed that it was filled with several different styluses, ranging from basic and inexpensive ones available in just about any half-decent hi-fi store to ones that looked like they cost a small fortune. Looking down at the black boxes it was now becoming clear that what the desk was actually cluttered with was drawing equipment. They were pretty sure, anyway; it wasn’t like the Imposter knew anything about the world of digital art. They brushed their fingers over the top sheet of paper on the pile, suddenly praying with all their might that their hands weren’t still greasy from the fried chicken they snacked on earlier. Drawing back their hand quickly they bent over to try and see the paper more clearly: fantastically skillful and detailed anime-style artwork. Had Mitarai really drawn this? The Imposter couldn’t believe how professional the boy’s work looked; from character sheets showing countless images of a hopeful and bright-eyed young woman in a pale sundress to what looked like pages of roughly sketched storyboards. The Imposter decided that all this had to be related to the kid’s Ultimate talent: the Ultimate Digital Artist? Ultimate Graphic Novelist?

Sitting down at the desk, the Imposter took it upon themself to find out more about Ryota Mitarai: the boy had undeniably piqued their curiosity. They only had to wiggle the mouse before the screen lit up. A hugely complex and professional-looking digital art program was open, and on the screen was a drawing of the woman from the character sheets. The Imposter, carefully making sure not click on any of the hundreds of different buttons in the side-bar, minimised the program and opened the browser. They had found out how to break into the Hope’s Peak staff accounts at the beginning of the year, having paid off the Ultimate Hacker, an upperclassman, to retrieve the necessary information. Since they discovered that Byakuya Togami would be enrolled at the school the following year they had been scouring official school records non-stop, hunting desperately for a new identity to adopt.

This had been to absolutely no avail, of course.

‘Ryota Mitarai…from class 77B.’

The cursor hovered over the boy’s portrait on the screen. In a sea of loud and colourful looking characters, many of which the Imposter recognised both from their own research and from their short time at Hope’s Peak, there was Ryota Mitarai, standing out merely for how plain he was. The boy, despite the tell-tale traces of anxiety and discomfort on his face, at least looked healthy in his official school portrait. From his heart-shaped face to the dusting of pink in his cheeks, the vibrancy and volume to his light chestnut hair to the angles of his shoulders that were less alarmingly sharp than how they looked now. The Imposter could not help themself from wondering how the normal looking boy on the screen had ever transformed into the sickly teen unconscious in the bed. Double clicking on Mitarai’s portrait brought up page after page of writing: general information concerning the boy’s likes, dislikes and physical attributes such as height and weight as well as Mitarai’s Ultimate Talent.

‘The Ultimate Animator huh?’

Well, that certainly explained the wonderland of digital art equipment that was the kid’s desk. A decidedly average talent for a decidedly average boy; although, if Mitarai had been asked to join the Main Course, he must be utterly exceptional. Scrolling down through the never-ending text revealed teacher’s comments, reports, performance reviews, any and every piece of relevant, as well as irrelevant, information the Imposter could ask for. But it was Mitarai’s attendance record that made them raise one eyebrow: nothing but lines and lines of red x’s all down the page. The Imposter could not believe their eyes at first: this was saying that Mitarai hadn’t been to a single class at the academy since the beginning of the year. The Imposter had checked enough Hope’s Peak attendance records to know they weren’t reading the table incorrectly, but surely somebody had inputted Mitarai’s information wrong or something? Not having attended a single class all year? That had to be impossible. However, skim-reading the teachers’ comments about this boy seemed to suggest that they were not mistaken.

From Koichi Kizakura, his Homeroom teacher: “Mitarai is a hugely talented animator, would probably have more to say about him if he ever showed up to my class.”  
Every other comment the Imposter found said approximately the exact same thing: that Mitarai’s ability to create incredible animation was unmatched but he nobody had ever actually seen him in classes since the beginning of the year.

From the P.E teacher: “Animation is the only thing Mitarai cares about and the only thing he spends his time doing. This kind of obsessive and unhealthy lifestyle should not be encouraged by the academy.”

The Imposter narrowed their eyes: it sounded like the Ultimate Animator was quite the problem child. They found multiple cases of teachers having appealed to Jin Kirigiri, attempting to convince the Headmaster to force Mitarai to come to class. But Kirigiri hadn’t done anything about it: so long as Mitarai was excelling at his own talent it apparently wasn’t relevant to the higher-ups at Hope’s Peak whether he attended classes like Homeroom or P.E. From reading Kirigiri’s feedback it even seemed like the Headmaster preferred that Mitarai shut himself in his room in order to work on his talent – in the end, Hope’s Peak was about fostering hope and allowing talent to bloom, and in the case of Ryota Mitarai, this purpose was “better served through him creating fantastic animation.”

The Imposter almost couldn’t believe what they were reading: the academy was willing to allow a student to shut himself into his bedroom all day and skip every one of his classes in order to do nothing but animate? They understood that school regulations regarding attendance were much more lenient on the Main Course at Hope’s Peak than at normal schools or on the Reserve Course, but they assumed naturally that there was a limit, that a student couldn’t simply skip every class without repercussions. Amidst this disbelief the cogs in their head gradually began to turn; they thought that they were maybe beginning to understand why Mitarai’s condition had deteriorated as it had.

Their suspicions were all but confirmed when they clicked on another collection of reports from the 77th class’s Homeroom teacher. This time they concerned Mitarai’s fortnightly reviews, which were the school’s casual method of periodically checking up on students’ individual talents throughout the year. Having to pass these tests as Byakuya Togami every two weeks had undoubtedly been one of the most stressful aspects of the Imposter’s career at Hope’s Peak thus far. It looked like Kizakura had been forced to visit Mitarai in his bedroom in order to carry out his reviews. The Imposter could tell, even from the hastily scribbled down and often incomplete reports, that Mitarai was “undoubtedly one of the most gifted in the group.” That much remained a constant. However, something else also cropped up each time, to varying degrees, yet always included nevertheless.

“Mitarai doesn’t appear to ever leave his dorm room, does nothing all day but work; health potentially suffering for it.”

“Mitarai’s animation is, without question, outstanding. I do worry that this high quality of work could be coming at the price of a sufficient sleep schedule. Possibly isn’t eating properly.”

“He really is the "divine animator". Am quite concerned about his diet: has lost weight since last review.”

“I urgently recommend that the school board inquire after Mitarai’s wellbeing: can identify further weight loss as well as severe mental and physical exhaustion. Please take this request seriously.”

That report was the most recent, dated last week. It all made sense to the Imposter: why they had found Mitarai unconscious in the halls and why he had looked so unwell: the school had given Mitarai the all-clear to stay in his bedroom all day and work on his anime, and Mitarai’s extensive hard work and dedication had resulted in him neglecting his health. Furthermore, the school board seemed to have ignored Kizakura’s concerns over the boy’s health documented in his reports. The Imposter wasn’t surprised at this; they knew that Hope’s Peak was an immense institution and that an unimaginable amount of research and side projects went on behind the scenes. The recent introduction of the Reserve Course spoke volumes about that; all those tuition fees had to be getting funnelled into something. Hope’s Peak Academy wasn’t an organisation to care about individual well-being: so long as the school was continuing to produce outstanding alumni and exam results, individual students and their problems slipped under the radar. The Imposter couldn’t complain, however: it was because of Hope’s Peak’s general negligence regarding their students that they had been able to infiltrate the school as "Byakuya Togami" so easily (though, of course, that identity was doomed the minute the real Togami had enrolled.) From how Jin Kirigiri had responded to teachers’ complaints about Mitarai’s absences it even seemed like they would turn a blind eye to his potential health problems as long as he continued to produce exceptional animation.

The Imposter thought back to their envy of the young animator, envy because he possessed a name and an identity. Now all they could begin to feel was a kind of gutting pity: yes, the boy had these things, qualities they had never felt within them, but it was becoming apparent that he was absolutely incapable of utilising them. Looking over at the pale and fragile heap of skin and bones tucked into the bed the Imposter could only identify a boy who had apparently been unable to handle the sheer weight of an identity. The Imposter immediately understood that they had something Mitarai clearly did not – they had control; over how others perceived them, over who they existed as in the minds of people they interacted with. It almost seemed as though Mitarai had given up on that control; after all, he had let the health of his body, the vessel for his identity, deteriorate so drastically.

But the Imposter knew they couldn’t let emotions like pity or sympathy affect them in this way, especially when said emotions concerned some unfortunate kid they didn’t even know.

All this time an idea had been forming in their head, an idea that was constantly hovering at the back of their mind, now creeping to the fore. Mitarai was a boy who clearly didn’t know how to possess an identity, and the Imposter was desperately in need of a new identity to adopt. Mitarai seemed to want nothing but to shut himself away and animate, while the Imposter, for weeks, had been in search of an identity that wasn’t "occupied".

They couldn’t shake the feeling that this had been destiny; a truly fateful encounter.

\-------

When the animator’s eyes gently fluttered open the Imposter had long since given up on their research. They had taken to sitting on the floor and simply waiting for him to regain consciousness so they could strike their risky bargain and ask if they could impersonate him. It had not yet been an hour since they had found the animator, but time had been crawling at an unbearably slow pace. After what felt like an eternity of waiting they hadn’t at all decided in their own head how they were going to play this, heck, even whether they were acting as Byakuya Togami or as themelf. Considering what they were about to ask of the boy it was surely only fair that Mitarai see their real self, but did they even know who that was anymore? By the time the boy woke up, the Imposter felt nowhere near ready to address the situation.

‘Who…who are you?’

His voice was tiny, hoarse, cracked, as if he hadn’t used it in days.

‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’

 They were literally sweating: where was this sentence even going? Why were they letting their mouth move ahead of their brain?

‘There’s no proof that I exist, and I have no family.’

They were painfully aware that this introduction, revealing themself as a fake with no name and no identity, had never happened before. The sense of growing discomfort that a total stranger was about to discover their most treasured secret was quelled by a strange yet refreshing feeling of liberation.

‘All I have in this world is my ability to pass as other people. Comes in pretty handy; I haven’t lived as me in forever now and no-one’s the wiser.’    

‘…Pass as other people? What do you- ‘

‘I am the Ultimate Imposter. My Super High School Level talent is my ability to adopt other people’s identities as my own. For as long as I can remember I have been passing through life under the guise of somebody completely different.’

Mitarai wasn’t reacting in any way other than looking down the bed with a glazed and vaguely curious expression on his face. More than anything he looked like he was ready to fall asleep again at any moment, which wasn’t good for the Imposter's nerves – keeping him interested and, by extension, awake even for enough time to make their deal could be a problem.

‘That said, this one’s got an expiration date on it. Clock’s ticking.’

Mitarai said nothing. Again. Honestly, one would expect the boy to have more questions: it wasn’t every day a stranger breaks into your bedroom and claims to be a highly-skilled impersonator with no name or family. Was this reaction a result of his exhaustion or did the boy simply have lousy judgement?

‘We’ve never met before but I’ve done my homework on you.’

At this his eyes widened a tad and he started to appear mildly anxious.

‘…What did you find out?’

A normal reaction would surely be to accuse the Imposter of being a psycho-stalker.

‘You’re not what I’d call a well-rounded person; animation is all you give a damn about. If it were an option, you would chain yourself to that tablet and draw forever.’

The Imposter knew their comment was delivered rather bluntly; after living for so long as Byakuya Togami one learns how to say things as emotionlessly and as efficiently as possible. They could only hope that Mitarai wouldn’t take offense at the insinuation that his whole life revolved around anime. Being told that by a total stranger had to sting

‘Uh, yeah, you’re not wrong.

Not only was he not offended but he actively accepted the Imposter’s judgemental comment? It was starting to become clear to them what kind of guy the Ultimate Animator really was.

‘Every waking moment…I just wanna make more anime.’

The Imposter narrowed their bespectacled eyes and glared into Mitarai’s racoon-like, half-lidded ones.

‘I could run interference for you; take old Ryota Mitarai out for a spin, and leave you free to create.’

At this Mitarai parted his lips and made a tiny noise, his eyes widening suddenly.

‘…You…d-do you mean- ‘

‘I am asking you if I can impersonate you. It is an…awkward request to say the least, but I honestly don’t have any other options.’

‘You…want to impersonate me?’

‘I do’

‘As in…you want to…. pretend to be me?’

‘…That is what it means to impersonate somebody.’

The boy sounded barely conscious. It occurred to the Imposter that they should really make him eat something and get some sleep before making such an unusual request. Right now it felt like they were talking to a brick wall.

‘I would adopt your appearance and your personality, essentially taking your place at Hope’s Peak. In public I will be the Ultimate Animator, while, behind the scenes, you will be free to animate to your heart’s content.’

For a while, Mitarai said nothing. They couldn’t tell whether it was because he was conflicted and unsure about the proposal or because he had actually shut off. Kizakura wasn’t exaggerating when he said that the kid was mentally exhausted. Had he even processed anything they had said?

‘I…I could do nothing…nothing at all except animate?’

Wasn’t that how he lived his life already? How much more invested in his animation could he get? How much more of an unhealthy shut-in could he possibly be?

‘Yes. I would live my life entirely as you. Others around me would know me as Ryota Mitarai. You would be free to do whatever you please.’

For a second the Imposter swore they could see the teen’s eyes glisten, as if he was starting to cry.

‘Are you alright?’ they asked, attempting to sound as detached as possible but feeling considerably more uncomfortable.

‘I…it’s just…all I’ve ever wanted is to be able to create art…that is beautiful and hopeful that will…that could save the w-world.’

He was definitely tearing up, as well as rapidly losing coherency.

‘You know…d-do you know about my project? My anime? It will…when it’s done, it will bring people comfort a-and solace and hope. It’s…my anime is my whole life, you’re right. It is the reason I exist.’

They had to calm him down; he was starting to sound hysterical, his breathing shallow and uneven, his voice cracking and barely audible.

‘Listen, you need to get some sleep; you are exhausted, and I should not have made such a request of you whilst in this state.’

He made an effort to take a few deep breaths through his nose and scrubbed at his damp eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

‘I’m…I’m sorry- ‘

‘No. No apologies, it’s fine. Please, take my advice; go to sleep. I will be here tomorrow to talk more about my proposal.’

Without even responding Mitarai’s eyes fell closed and he manoeuvred himself into a sleeping position, wriggling onto his side with one arm tucked under the pillow. After a few long seconds of silence, the Imposter assumed he had instantly fallen asleep. They decided to stay the night on Mitarai’s floor: as uncomfortable and potentially creepy as it sounded, they wanted to be there the second he woke up to get some kind of confirmation. Plus, the idea of having to awkwardly knock on his door to make their deal the next day made them cringe for a number of reasons.

‘Yes.’

The Imposter was almost alarmed at the sudden noise from the bed. Was Mitarai awake, or was he sleep talking?

‘Mitarai?’

‘You can do it.’

The Imposter couldn’t tell whether Mitarai was agreeing to their offer or talking nonsense in his sleep. He certainly sounded awake; his words sounded decisive and somehow sincere, as if he was invested in what he was saying. The Imposter opened their mouth to speak before Mitarai beat them to it.

‘I want you to impersonate me.’

‘You’ve…really decided already?’

The Imposter didn’t want to discourage the kid from agreeing to their offer, but something felt wrong about him doing so while hardly conscious.

‘Honestly, I feel like…I feel like I-I can…trust you, you know?’

The Imposter’s heart skipped a beat and they couldn’t help themself from taking in a sharp breath. In that moment, something powerful bloomed in their chest, something that made them feel warm and strong and electric and bursting with a strange fizzing energy. For the first time in what felt like their entire life the Imposter could feel their identity burning inside of them with colours so bright they could see them with their eyes closed. They didn’t immediately know how or why they felt this way, how Mitarai’s words had ignited the previously dying flame that was their sense of self. They couldn’t tell whether they appreciated Mitarai’s words and how they had made him feel or not, just that the simple words “I trust you” were almost enough to make their heart physically ache.

‘You…you can’t possibly trust me; you have only just met me,’ they stated matter-of-factly. But this time there was no response from the figure who had cocooned himself under the covers. The Imposter concluded that this time he really was asleep; they could now make out gentle and rhythmic breathing that indicated the boy had to have dropped off.

Right. Well that was that. Somehow they suddenly felt another intense surge of stinging loneliness, and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was because Mitarai had fallen asleep. Shaking their head aggressively they scolded themself for imagining something so utterly ludicrous, so pathetic, so dependent on somebody else. They knew by now that people were unreliable and deceitful and judgemental. They let you down, they flake out and disappear when you need them. The Imposter had been able to shield themself from such disappointment their entire life and wasn’t about to let themself get affected by an unhealthy workaholic with unrealistic and, honestly, unattainable ambitions. They were better than that, smarter than that.

Before they could allow themself to have any more uncomfortable thoughts about the animator they decided to finally get some rest, suddenly realising how late it had to have been. Relaxing their massive frame against the cold, hard wall they began to wonder how they would sleep at all that night.

Especially considering that the fireworks inside them, sparked by one Ryota Mitarai, had not stopped blazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love sagishi and mitarai so much and need content so i'm making it myself wahey.  
> most dialogue is taken from the funi dub...bcos i actually really like it, esp justin briner who plays both ryota and imposter!ryota like he does an amazing job.  
> i added some lines in bcos i realised that imposter never actually officially told mitarai that they were the ultimate imposter, they just kinda went 'i have no family and there's no proof i exist lolol' like if someone showed up in my room and said that without any explanation i would be fucking confused.  
> also i sometimes forget when writing this that i am using 'they' for the imposter and not 'he' (i do have my reasons) so if you find cases where i have accidentally used 'he' then pls tell me?? cos i will correct it.  
> thnk u for reading :D


	2. Chapter 2

They awoke with a start the next morning. Somewhere deep within their subconscious mind they registered a cry, followed by a thump, followed by the sound of multiple items clattering to the ground. Their eyes flew open and they instinctively glanced around. Vision still adjusting to the winter sunlight blaring through the open window, their gaze settled on the slightly hazy image of a figure on the floor across from them, with limbs pulled up defensively. Within moments their memories of the night before came flooding back.

‘Ryota Mitarai,’ they stated plainly.

‘I-I-Imposter,’ he stammered back to them, an expression of genuine but rapidly fading horror plastered to his face.

Silence.

‘You remember who I am,’ the Imposter spoke plainly, their eyes wandering to the rug which now had a large kink in in it. Various pens were scattered all over the floor, accompanied by two pen pots that were now resting on their sides.

‘Y-Yes, I do!’

He must have caught on to where the Imposter was staring because he went on to furrow his brow and press his lips together nervously.

‘I’m s-s-sorry about that…about the mess…’ he spoke up ‘I…well, honestly I didn’t immediately remember what happened last night, or who you were, a-and, well…’ he trailed off, looking around guiltily at the clutter on the floor. The Imposter assumed that he slipped on the rug from the surprise of seeing a stranger asleep in his room and tried to use the table to keep himself upright, only to knock over his pens in the process.

At least they knew now that acting as Ryota Mitarai entailed being clumsy and skittish.

‘Don’t apologise. I should be saying sorry for spending the night in your room; I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Mitarai’s eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously ‘N-No, it’s alright, honestly, I don’t mind at all!’

After this he started on the somewhat daunting task of reassembling his previously organised pen pots, scrambling immethodically from one loose pen to another and carefully slipping them back into their proper containers. Every once in a while he brought the pen or pencil close to his face and scanned it with narrowed eyes, probably checking if it was broken or damaged. The Imposter didn’t think pens and styluses were really breakable, but what did they know?

‘How are you feeling this morning? Better?’ the Imposter spoke up, breaking the rather awkward silence.

For a few seconds Mitarai didn’t answer, carefully studying an expensive looking stylus that he had found on the floor. Had he not heard them? The Imposter was unsure whether to repeat the question or not.

‘Mitarai.’

At this the animator’s head jerked in the Imposter’s direction out of surprise and he was forced to perform a mightily unimpressive juggling act with the stylus when he accidentally almost chucked it behind him, eventually catching it and holding it close to his chest with both hands.

‘W-what? Sorry, how am I feeling?’

The Imposter nodded, pressing their lips together. He was still acting totally out of it.

‘I’m fine, thank you! Really, today I feel much better!’

Every word he said sounded as if he were in a constant state of mild panic. At this point he must have spotted a pen that had rolled under the bed because he began to manoeuvre himself onto his stomach, extending his arm as far as he could under the bed’s frame. Unfortunately, the gap between the floor and the bed was too narrow to fit one’s head under, so Mitarai was forced to blindly feel at the floor for what felt like an eternity. The Imposter wondered whether they should offer to help in some way: the kid was clearly having difficulty, constantly having to rework his position in an attempt to grasp the wandering pen.

‘Sorry,’ he spoke in concentration. ‘I definitely saw one under here, I’ll get it eventually…’

He said that, but as the minutes crawled by without success the Imposter began to grow impatient. Sighing but not saying a word, the Imposter got to their feet and, taking their meaty hands, gripped the end of the bed and lifted. Mitarai let out a small and surprised yelp, his purple-shaded eyes darting upwards in panic. Having realised that they were trying to help him (and not drop the bed on him), he cracked a small yet appreciative smile, his expression relaxing considerably. With one half of the bed suspended in the air by the Imposter, Mitarai quickly identified the missing pen and scrambled to retrieve it. Once he had withdrawn from under the bed the Imposter gently set it down.

‘T-Thank you!’ he stammered, reaching for his half-full pen pot and placing the stray inside.

The Imposter closed their eyes and smiled briefly ‘No problem at all.’They took to joining Mitarai in recovering the rest of his scattered stationary, getting a timid yet sincere “Thanks!” from the boy whenever they handed him one. After a short period Mitarai declared with a satisfied smile that they had found all of them, once again thanking the Imposter for their help. Carefully, he placed the refilled pen pots on the crowded desk where they belonged. In the meantime, the Imposter, who had sat themself down onto Mitarai’s mattress, was becoming painfully aware that neither they nor the animator had brought up what was discussed last night; the plan to have Mitarai be the Imposter’s newest disguise. They didn’t know exactly how or when to mention it: it still felt like Mitarai and themself were working through the period of awkwardly introducing themselves, although this had happened last night.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Imposter, attempting to break the silence but also genuinely curious ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the time, would you?’

‘Oh, y-yes!’

Mitarai began fumbling in his trouser pocket for his phone and, gripping it tightly with both hands, illuminated the screen.

‘It’s just gone 10.30.’ At this point his eyes wandered to the floor guiltily and began softly scratching the side of his pale, gaunt face with his finger ‘I-I’m really sorry, you’ve already missed one full class and half of another…’

‘What are you apologising for now?’

The Imposter unintentionally sounded rather exasperated, which made the guilt in Mitarai’s face intensify.

‘W-well, it’s just because it’s a-all my fault you were…you know, up so late…is all. I mean, you…y-y-you found me and everything...’ His voice became quieter and quieter the longer he spoke, as if he were deeply ashamed of what had happened. The Imposter quickly realised that avenues for them to remind Mitarai of their proposal were rapidly opening up.

‘Yes, well…’ the Imposter sighed, closing their eyes 'there is really no need to be apologetic about that. I’m just glad that you’re feeling better.’

That having been said, the Imposter, looking up at Mitarai, was beginning to notice that perhaps he was not feeling better at all: with eyes that all of a sudden appeared vacant and glassy he gazed at the floor, not really focusing on anything in particular. His skin had turned desperately pale, almost translucent, and, when they looked closely, the Imposter could see that he was swaying on his feet slightly.

‘Mitarai?’

He said nothing. His lack of any reaction whatsoever led the Imposter to believe that he hadn’t even heard them. His shaky breathing was rapidly growing louder and slower, as if he was trying to suck up as much oxygen as possible.

‘Mitarai!’ the Imposter barked this time, sounding harsher than they meant to. The boy’s gaze didn’t break from its spot somewhere on the floor but he appeared this time to have heard.

‘....I-I-I d-don’t...feel well. I…I…I feel really dizzy…’ he whispered, sounding increasingly panicked. He had begun to visually shiver, and all of a sudden threw a hand haphazardly to the adjacent desk in an attempt not to fall over, almost knocking over his newly reassembled pen pots in the process.

 The Imposter quickly stood up so they were face to face with the animator and clamped their hands onto his narrow shoulders. Mitarai raised his head shakily and his unfocused stare met with theirs. The Imposter inwardly shuddered: up close the bags under the kid’s eyes appeared so much heavier and his face so much thinner. His complexion had literally turned a pale shade of green-ish-yellow.

‘You need to sit down,’ they spoke as clearly and slowly as they could, gently descending onto the bed and taking Mitarai with them by his shoulders. Once the animator was seated, his body rigid and shaking more violently than before, the Imposter brushed their hand against his, only to find that it was absolutely freezing. Then they understood the problem.

‘Mitarai...when was the last time you ate something?’

It took the boy a while to respond.

‘I…I…I…d-don’t remember…’ he breathed, his voice barely audible, his brow furrowed.

They sighed intentionally loudly and obviously ‘Well no wonder you’re feeling unwell.’ They really hated when people didn’t know the importance of fats and sugars. Mitarai let out an almost silent “Sorry…” before the Imposter got to their feet.

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, don’t go anywhere.’

Shutting the door halfway behind them the Imposter dashed for their room across the hall. The last thing they wanted was for the animator to pass out again. As reluctant as they were to venture into their personal food stash, something they took great pride in, an annoying sense of moral obligation combined with the simple desire to further discuss their offer with Mitarai led to the understanding that they had no choice. Rifling through their cupboard, which was absolutely rammed, mostly with bags and bags of their favourite brand of potato chips, they settled on a pot of instant noodles. They weren’t exactly nutritional, but it wasn’t like they had anything better. Besides, the noodles contained dried mushrooms, seaweed and tiny pieces of dried chicken, so that surely counted for something. Grabbing a pot for themself as well, along with a bag of chips, they made for the corridor’s tiny, smelly, communal kitchen. They truly hated this room: it was perpetually a kind of off-grey colour, even when the sun was shining through the window or the light was on, and the fridge had smelled funny since they had moved in at the start of term. Actually opening up and putting their head inside the fridge was enough to make them instantly nauseous. On top of that, even students that represented the world’s hope constantly neglected to clear up after themselves, resulting in there being dirty cutlery and plates festering in and around the sink at any given time. However, it had a kettle, and, luckily for them, hot water was all they needed to prepare instant noodles.

They lovingly added boiling water and additional flavour packets to the noodle pots before awkwardly taking one in the nook of each elbow, grabbing their Oily Potato chips, and exiting the vile kitchen. When they arrived back at Mitarai’s room they were forced to reverse into the door in order to open it.

‘I’m coming in,’ they announced. Turning around to face the bed they saw that Mitarai hadn’t moved an inch from where they left him. He did look much calmer, though, and was no longer shivering quite as violently, indicating that his wave of sudden light-headedness had perhaps passed. Upon spotting the noodles Mitarai’s eyebrows shot upwards and he began frantically waving his hands in front of his face.

‘Y-you didn’t have to bring anything, I’m fine, honestly I- well, I-I dunno what just happened, but I’m feeling fine now!’

He immediately looked guilty again and the Imposter wasn’t entirely sure why.

‘I-I mean, it’s not that I’m not g-g-grateful…really I am, I’m so sorry if it seems like I-I don’t appreciate it…’ Ah, that was why. ‘But, h-honestly I really feel like… if I eat anything right now I m-might throw up…’

The Imposter sighed ‘You’re not going to throw up. There is nothing in your stomach **to** throw up. You are feeling this way because you’re starving, now please accept the noodles.’

Mitarai looked as if he was about to retaliate further, but, having probably realised that the Imposter wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer, instead closed his eyes and gave a weak smile. The Imposter, sitting down on the bed, handed him one of the noodle cups, which he took in both hands, albeit hesitantly. ‘Good,’ the Imposter smiled approvingly.

‘T-Thank you,’ he said sincerely ‘I…I really appreciate it, everything you’ve done for me, I mean. Thanks.’

They decided to allow Mitarai to start on his noodles before talking more about their deal. His first few bites were tiny and took way too long, partially due to his hand that wouldn’t stop quivering. However, the more Mitarai ate, the more he must have realised just how hungry he was, as he began to eat faster and take more substantial mouthfuls. Discretely side-eyeing him, the Imposter was relieved to see some colour returning to his cheeks pretty much instantly.

‘Bit better?’ spoke the Imposter with a mouth full of noodles.

‘Y-yeah!’ he smiled ‘I’m feeling less faint e-every second.’ His voice was laced with amazement, as if he didn’t have a basic understanding of how the human body worked or why it needed calories.

‘As expected,’ they grinned rather smugly. Honestly, if only people appreciated the importance of proper nourishment as much as they did. ‘Now, let’s get down to business; I need to discuss something with you.’

Mitarai turned to them curiously, a noodle strand dangling from his lips ‘Hm?’ He inhaled the stray noodle ‘What’s that?’

‘What I spoke to you about last night; my offer to you. Do you remember that?’

Smiling timidly, the animator nodded. ‘Y-yes, of course. You want to impersonate me, right?’

So he actually did remember…

‘Right,’ the Imposter nodded ‘How do you feel about the idea?’

Talking through another mouthful of noodles, Mitarai looked blankly at the Imposter. ‘I thought I already told you. Last night, remember?’ For a second the kid looked panicked again, swallowing down what was in his mouth nervously. ‘Wait, did I make that up? Was it a dream?’

The Imposter settled one hand on Mitarai’s shoulder and looked at him reassuringly ‘No. No, you did say that, you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I kind of assumed you were sleep-talking at the time.’

Mitarai smiled ‘No, I was awake. And I meant what I said. I-I want you to do it.’

The Imposter couldn’t help but feel contented at how much more alive the boy looked just from consuming a half a cup of instant noodles. His eyes, despite the dark crescents hanging from the lower lids, looked infinitely brighter, and his smile, despite being a small and nervous one, was energetic and genuine. Not to mention his speech and his body language: they noticed that his coherency had improved drastically, and instances of him stammering and stuttering had decreased. His body language already appeared so much more relaxed and comfortable and open, automatically making him more approachable.

‘You’re certain about that? I mean I’m pleased that you’re being so cooperative but, honestly, I’m slightly surprised at just how cooperative you’re being…’

The animator’s gaze, suddenly laced with anxiety, darted south. Gazing deeply into his noodle soup, he gave another small smile ‘…I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t have doubts about the whole thing. I don’t know whether lying to other people about something like this is right or, you know, something I should be a part of.’ At this point he raised his head and, possibly for the first time, looked directly into the Imposter’s eyes. ‘I just know that I want to dedicate my life to my animation, you know? A-and, well, you’re kinda offering me a chance to do that on a silver platter...’

The Imposter said nothing.

‘A-And... you know, who am I to refuse an offer like this? You’re giving me the opportunity to c-cut all ties with the outside world so I can focus on my anime, and r-really, I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

The Imposter pressed their lips together and was suddenly nagged by concern due to how this exchange could affect Mitarai’s well-being: as much of a shut-in he was currently, that would surely only get worse as soon as the Imposter took his place, when he’d have no reason whatsoever to leave his bedroom or interact with others. As much as they needed a new personality, they refused to act as a catalyst for the boy’s health declining even further.

‘Look, like I said, I appreciate how understanding you’re being, I really do. But… how do I say this? I don’t want to be the reason for you overworking yourself even more than you do already.’

That looked like it stung, Mitarai wincing subtly and bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck ‘I…I won’t do that. I don’t overwork myself… last night was a one-off, honestly…’ he spoke unbearably quietly, his eyes fixed to the steaming noodles on his lap. He was a terrible liar.

‘Didn’t I tell you last night that I’ve done research on you? I know that you’re lying to me,’ He looked up at them, eyes tinged with stress and regret. ‘Last night wasn’t a one-off, that much is obvious from reading what Mr. Kizakura has been saying about you. Did you know he wanted to get in touch with the school board about your health?’

For the first time since they met Mitarai looked annoyed, indignant. ‘He…he has no right to say stuff like that about me. He tries to talk to me about it every time he comes to do his…his _stupid_ reviews…it’s none of his business.’ Mitarai gently clenched his fist on his lap. ’He doesn’t understand anything…he’s…he’s drunk half the time anyway…’

The Imposter gave Mitarai a sceptical look, causing the boy to sweat even more and start to fidget incessantly with a loose thread in his trousers. ‘I mean, sometimes when I’m concentrating on my work I get a bit…well…consumed. And I guess sometimes I forget to do other stuff…but…. but it’s not a problem, honestly, I know how to live with it!’

The Imposter continued to glare at the boy with narrowed, doubtful eyes. The longer they did this, the more unbearably stressed he looked, the more he seemed to hunch his shoulders and pick at his trousers almost aggressively.

‘I’m just concerned about the effects this will have on you,’ they stated as calmly as possible. ‘There are some things I don’t particularly want on my conscience, and you working yourself to death is one of them. Surely you must understand that.’

‘No, I do understand, y-you don’t!’ his head jerked upwards and, once again, his eyes locked with the Imposter’s. Meanwhile, they were fighting off waves of flaring irritation due to how obstinate Mitarai was acting.

‘Look, o-okay, I misspoke before, I don’t want you to do this just because it will give me a chance to animate, that was a stupid thing to say, I-I-I’m sorry.’ He drew back again, his eyes nervously darting somewhere to the side. When he spoke again it was infinitely quieter.

‘I…honestly, I-I need some way to thank you, to…repay you for what you did for me…’

They were genuinely taken aback: just for a brief second, the Imposter was transported to the night before, once again able to feel that unstoppable, fizzing energy. Crushing down this sensation as quickly and efficiently as they could, they pushed up their fake-lensed glasses and hastily took another hefty mouthful of noodles.

‘What’re you even talking about?’ they scoffed mid-chew.

Mitarai smiled serenely, his eyes once again fixed to the floor. ‘Last night…you know…you found me and you made sure I was okay. You even stayed with me all night. And this morning…you helped me pick up all my stuff and made me eat and now I feel so much better already…’ He was starting to sound genuinely emotional in the same way as he had last night. There were no tears though. ‘You…you didn’t have to do that, any of that! But you did. I mean…I guess I’m trying to say…h-h-honestly, it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…’

The nicest thing anyone had ever done for him? Really? Had no one taken care of him like that before? The Imposter imagined that this didn’t include figures like his parents. It couldn’t, surely. Meanwhile, Mitarai’s confession had put them in a strange emotional limbo between immense discomfort and overwhelming warmth. Mixed in was a burdensome sense of shame inspired by the fact that many of their generous actions towards the animator were motivated by their desire to impersonate him. They hastily swallowed down such feelings; there was a distinct possibility that Mitarai was saying these things in order to distract them from their previous line of questioning.

‘I told you,’ they coughed ‘I really haven’t done anything amazing, there’s no reason to be so grateful.’

‘But I am really grateful to you! Y-you could have just left me there; it’s not like I know you or you know me or you had any obligation to do what you did…’

‘…You’re really overreacting- ‘

‘Just-’ he started abruptly, his voice louder than they had ever heard it, and his eyes filled with resolve. When he spoke again, his former demeanour had suddenly returned, with his hunched shoulders and perpetually anxious expression: ‘Just… _please_ let me do this for you. I told you, I have so many doubts about it as well. I-I know it’s probably not a good thing to do...’

The Imposter opened their mouth to speak. Mitarai must have noticed because he tentatively raised one hand in their general direction and glanced directly into their eyes again. The Imposter closed their mouth, gave a half smile, and gestured for him to continue.

‘A-a-and, maybe I am overreacting. B-but, the fact is, what you did really meant a lot to me and I want to do something for you in return. You need someone to impersonate, and nobody at the school even knows what I look like, I mean, apart from Mr. Kizakura…’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ they smirked confidently. ‘I know we...well, we don’t look similar…at _all_ …’

The Imposer hastily looked the animator up and down and couldn’t imagine how they could look less alike.

‘…But, I am not some two-bit actor or _cosplayer_.’ There was more disdain in their voice than they had intended. ‘When I adopt someone else’s identity, the real individual may as well cease to exist. I have spent my entire life living as other people and have never been discovered as a fake. I know how to make people forget they ever knew the real you, how to make them think that Ryota Mitarai has only ever looked me.’

During their speech Mitarai had cocked his head somewhat curiously and narrowed his eyes, and the Imposter could see how much he was trying to understand their art, how it was possible to make someone totally forget the real Ultimate Animator.

‘So it’s kinda like…brainwashing? A little bit?’ Something in his voice sounded just a little bit too invested in such a sketchy concept.

‘What? N-no, not at all!’ They couldn’t help but be taken aback by such an odd comparison. ‘I don’t employ shady techniques or mind tricks or anything like that.’ Did Mitarai look kind of guilty or were they imagining it?

‘I am the Ultimate Imposter,’ they continued proudly. ‘My Super High School Level Talent is literally convincing other people without a shadow of a doubt that I am somebody else. I don’t need dodgy brainwashing tricks to achieve that.’

Mitarai’s eyes fixed themselves to his noodles again, which were only half eaten but were rapidly growing cold and congealed. ‘O-oh...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- ‘

‘No.’ They set a hand on his shoulder, giving another reassuring smile. ‘You didn’t. It’s fine.’

‘What I’m trying to say is that Kizakura won’t be an issue, especially if you’re telling the truth and he's drunk half the time anyway. If anyone’s not going to notice that Ryota Mitarai is a fake, it’s him.’

‘I was telling the truth about that...about Mr Kizakura…’ he grimaced uncomfortably. ‘I can…I can smell alcohol on him whenever he comes over here…’

The Imposter frowned in response, but knew that Kizakura was none of their business and that it was wrong to start judging him based solely off what Mitarai was saying. He said he was telling the truth, but how did they know?

‘S-so…what do you think?’ he stammered, picking at the discoloured skin under his eye.

The Imposter closed their eyes and inhaled deeply. ‘…I want you to promise me that you’re going to start taking better care of yourself.’

Mitarai looked intensely guilty, his fists clenching again.

‘I don’t want to have to deal with what happened last night again, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either. If I’m going to impersonate you, I want you to promise me that you will start sleeping and eating better.’ Mitarai looked distressed and opened his mouth to refute the Imposter’s accusations. Before he could say a word, they raised their voice sharply in the true Byakuya Togami fashion: ‘And don’t try to insist that you do already because, once again, I have done enough research on you to know that you’d be lying.’

He glanced nervously to the side. Again. He didn’t seem to be a massive fan of extended eye contact.

‘Y-Yeah…alright fine…’ he muttered, his voice massively discontented.

‘Hm? Say that again?’ they spoke in an exaggeratedly motherly and scolding voice.

He pursed his lips. ‘Y-yes, I p-promise.’

‘Thank you,’ they smirked. They were still concerned about whether he would keep this promise or was just trying to get the Imposter to masquerade as him. They didn’t understand his character well enough yet to know whether his emotional speech about wanting to repay them for what they did was genuine or simply a way of manipulating them. They also couldn’t tell whether this would just turn out to be an excuse for him to animate every hour of every day. But they also understood that they would probably never know this, and that it was senseless to hold themself back from such an amazing opportunity just because the kid might be lying. Besides, if he was just saying what he knew the Imposter wanted to hear, it wasn’t their problem, it was his.

The Imposter extended their meaty hand towards the animator, who didn’t seem to know how to react beyond looking generally confused, as if he couldn’t tell that they were attempting to initiate a handshake. This went on, with their hand suspended in mid-air, for long enough that the atmosphere in the room had long become awkward.

‘Seriously?’

Mitarai blinked.

‘You know…you _do_ know what a handshake is, right?’

He looked startled, his eyes widening suddenly and one hand flying up to rub at the back of his neck again. ‘O-oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if that’s what- ‘

‘But what else would I be doing?’ they spoke exasperatedly.

‘I don’t know, I-I’ve just never been all that great at reading situations like t-this, you know?’ He was getting stressed again.

‘How can you be an animator if you don’t understand the basics of human interaction?’

He blushed furiously. ‘I-I-I do, but it’s not like I’ve ever had to animate a-a handshake, you know, I mean- ‘

‘Mitarai, just shake the hand,’ they deadpanned, holding their hand firmly before him. Mitarai sharply seized the Imposter’s hand and, red faced and looking away indignantly the whole time, accepted the handshake. It wasn’t quite as limp as the Imposter had expected it to be, but they assumed that was because he his hand was stiff out of irritation. It lasted a while, perhaps too long.

‘Oi,’ they grunted. Mitarai looked up, still embarrassed, once again locking his shaded eyes with theirs. They flashed one more half-smirk. ‘Nice working with you.’

The red in Mitarai’s cheeks was fading, his expression softening. He offered a tiny smile. ‘Y-yeah, s-same here.’

The Imposter released Mitarai’s hand and got to their feet.

‘W-wait, where are you going?’

‘Now that’s out of the way I need to prepare my best “Ryota Mitarai”, don’t I?’

Mitarai’s smile widened slightly. Once again, he began itching at the side of his face with one finger. ‘Y-yeah, I guess you do…man, this is pretty w-weird…’

The Imposter couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘I can see why you’d think that, but please don’t worry. I’ve been doing this my whole life; there is nothing to worry about.’

‘Heh, I know…’

The Imposter’s gaze travelled to Mitarai’s noodles which he hadn’t touched in a while, still only half eaten and probably stone cold by now. That wouldn’t stop them from finishing them, but they knew Mitarai needed to eat more than they did.

‘I want you to finish those while I’m gone.’

He pressed his lips together anxiously and picked at his trousers. ‘Yeah…I-I will…’

‘And I would like you to visit the school’s hospital as well.’

He looked up, obviously distressed, fists clenched. ‘I don’t…I-I don’t have time for tha- ‘

‘No excuses, please,’ they stated flatly. ‘Get some sleep now, and go down there a bit later. I know you think you are alright now, but you really should get checked out; you did pass out after all.’

He said nothing, looking increasingly stressed and nervous. Did he really not have enough time to sacrifice one day? Even when his health was on the line like this?

‘When I come back I want to see proof that you went to the hospital. Bring something back from there, and don’t think I’ll forget to check because I promise you I won’t.’

Crossing his arms and staring at the floor with troubled eyes, he finally answered after a pregnant pause.

 ‘…F-fine. I’ll go…’

The Imposter pulled the door open, looked back at the boy on the bed, and smirked.

‘Pleasure doing business with you, Ryota Mitarai.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw the name of this fic comes from that beck song called blue moon...cos i am not clever or deep enough to think of an original title and that song has kinda been rolling around in my head for days, including when i was writing this.  
> also, fun fact: the kitchen in this chapter is p much an exact description of the kitchen in my uni halls during my first year :3 the part abt throwing up from the smell in the fridge? 100% accurate, literally happened, it was not nice :/


	3. Chapter 3

In the week and a half since the Ultimate Imposter had met Ryota Mitarai, they had become certain of two things

A), that Mitarai, despite their initial assumptions that he was painfully average, was really anything but.

And B), that they were rapidly (and, surprisingly enough, willingly) becoming a full-time babysitter for him.

No, Ryota Mitarai was very much not an average guy. For the first couple of days, they had intentionally kept their distance from him: it wasn’t that they didn’t like him or found him annoying, but just kind of assumed that the mere fact that they were impersonating him did not mean that the pair had to spend huge amounts of time together. Besides, they could gather from their first meeting that Mitarai only really wanted to be left alone to work on his anime, on his “special project”, which they still didn’t have a clue what was. He had promised them that he would begin to take better care of himself, and the Imposter had a quiet confidence that he would at least try to keep this promise. After all, they had briefly gone back to his room later on that first day and Mitarai had, without doubt, visited the school’s doctor, having brought back one of those free pamphlets that were stacked on the receptionist’s desk about how to healthily deal with exam pressure. He had displayed it proudly, with that tiny smile on his face, and the Imposter had felt at relative ease. However, it only took one more meeting for them to discover that they had potentially committed to much more than a new disguise.

The first time they visited the animator since that first day was two days later. They had knocked on Mitarai’s door late in the afternoon, requiring spare animating gear to make themself look as much of an “animator” as possible. Still disguised as Byakuya Togami, their period of preparation for switching over to Ryota Mitarai was still very much in progress.

When they knocked first, there was no answer. They sighed and rolled their eyes; they knew he was in there; they could hear the quiet hum of his monitors and, when they pressed their ear to the door, they could hear the sound of a pen nib tapping and scratching away. They knocked again, this time harder and to a rhythm. For the second time there was no answer.

‘…Hello? You know who this is; can I come in?’

Silence.

More silence.

‘Mitaraiii?’ they drawled in an exaggeratedly bored voice, crossing their arms and pressing their ear to the door again.

There was no answer, but a few long seconds later, they heard the sound of slow and lazy footsteps padding lightly towards the door, followed by the clunky, metallic sound of it being unlocked. The Imposter tapped their foot impatiently; the simple task of letting them in was taking an absurdly long time. They had only come to see if Mitarai had any props he could lend them: a spare drawing tablet, photocopies of his artwork, cheap styluses, anything that would increase the believability of their disguise. Finally, the door creaked open a tad, and there was the animator, albeit only half of him, poking his head out into the hallway. Immediately, they noticed he wore a grim expression, his eyes half lidded and full of the same exhaustion they had observed the first time the pair had met. There was not a trace of a smile on his face, and his narrow shoulders were slumped lethargically. Despite this, they were pleased to see that, physically, he didn’t look any worse than before. Except he did look exceptionally pale, which the Imposter made a mental note of.

‘Well? Can I come in?’ It wasn’t really a question, or at least the Imposter wasn’t willing to take no for an answer.

Mitarai sighed audibly, something that immediately struck them as being quite rude and definitely not what they’d expect from the boy they met a few days ago. But they zipped their lips.

‘Y-Yeah, yeah, sure, come in…’ his voice was dry, cracked and almost inaudible. Having heard how he sounded, he made an attempt to clear his throat.

He pulled the door open wider, wide enough that the Imposter could now see him from head to toe: his hair, which still looked dull, lank and uncared for, was pulled into a scraggly ponytail which looked like it was about fall apart, messy pieces of hair framing his ashen face. This time, he was dressed in what they had to assume were his pyjamas, wearing a tattered pair of red and white-checked pants paired with a massively oversized short-sleeved t-shirt that nearly fell to his knees. On the tee was a faded image from a famous anime movie they had heard of but had never seen. The Imposter also could not help but notice the huge, fluffy and nauseatingly multi-coloured slipper socks on his feet, and swallowed down a tiny smile of amusement as they followed Mitarai into the dim bedroom. It struck them immediately how chilly it was, and wondered how the boy wasn’t freezing wearing short sleeves.

He automatically sat back down at his desk and locked his eyes to the multiple screens in front of him, which, to the Imposter’s dismay, were the only light source in the room. The curtains were open, but the winter sun had gone down a couple hours ago.

‘Jeez, Mitarai, it’s so dark in here!’ they exclaimed, making a beeline for the light switch. ‘You know how bad that is for your eyes?’ As soon as they flicked the lights on, a groan sounded from across the room. When they turned around, Mitarai, still sat in his chair, was balling his fists in his closed eyes and arching his back sharply. A series of loud and painful-sounding popping noises followed. The Imposter looked on unimpressed.

‘…Ugh…why did you do that?’ he grimaced mid-stretch, rubbing his eyes furiously. ‘Flooding the room with light like that…surely that’s gotta be worse for my eyes…’

They smirked and went to sit themself down onto the bed. ‘You’re fine. Working in the dark like that is really bad for you, you know.’

‘Y-yeah, sure…fine, whatever you say…’ At this point he pushed himself backwards in his spinning chair with his foot and extended his toothpick arms out in front of him, filling the room with further popping sounds. At the same time, he slowly and methodically tilted his neck from side to side.

‘…What’s up? Did you need something?’ he asked slowly and disjointedly, as if he wasn’t in the least bit focused on what he was saying. Without even glancing in the Imposter’s direction he immediately pulled himself towards the desk, robotically picking up his stylus to resume his work.

It was at this point the Imposter was struck with the sensation that something was off; this Ryota Mitarai seemed to be totally different from the scattered, unbearably nervous and timid boy they had met just a few days ago. Everything about how he was acting now gave off an air of resentment and annoyance, as if he was silently praying for the Imposter to leave him alone. When he hadn’t answered the door at first, they had just assumed that he hadn’t heard them; maybe he was listening to music or something. However, they could see no headphones, and, observing him right now, it seemed more and more plausible that he had simply been ignoring them and didn’t want to let anyone in.

‘…Well, yeah, actually, I was wondering if you had any spare animating equipment you could lend me?’ Mitarai didn’t break his gaze from the screen even slightly, continuing to feverishly tap away on the tablet. ‘I only ask because I need to make it look like my room is actually yours. Obviously we will stick your nameplate on my door, but…’

Silence. Tapping. Humming monitors.

‘…I thought it would maybe be a good idea to make photocopies of your character sheets, and also if you had any…I don’t know, old tablets or styluses I could borrow?’

Silence. Tapping. Humming monitors.

They were beginning to get slightly pissed off. Could he even hear them, or was he actively refusing to acknowledge what they were saying?

‘Mitarai.’

Nothing. Tapping. Humming monitors. The tapping was getting louder and faster.

They coughed loudly.

‘Mitarai!’ they barked this time.

Mitarai set his pen down abruptly, sharply swivelling his chair to face them. Somehow he was looking even paler than before, the purple patches under his eyes practically screaming for the Imposter’s attention. Did he look mad? His mien certainly wasn’t that of the timid and anxious boy they had met before.

‘…W-what is it?’ he breathed, eyes widened, as if he was desperately trying to hide his impatience and frustration. From the sound of his voice they were certain that he hadn’t used it all day. In fact, they wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t used it since they left his room two days ago.

‘Something’s the matter,’ they spoke flatly, keeping their tone as neutral and matter-of-fact as they could. ‘You’re acting very strangely.’

‘N-no I’m not.’

‘You really are.’

‘W-what, you think you can tell when something’s wrong with me? I’m fine, s-stop asking.’ Exhaustion and touchiness dripped from his words. It wasn’t like he was wrong; the pair had only met each other two days ago, so it wasn’t exactly the Imposter’s place to call him out for acting out of character. Or, at least, it wouldn’t be their place to do so if it wasn’t so incredibly obvious that he _was_ acting out of character.

‘…To be perfectly honest Mitarai, whether you mean to or not, you’re making it pretty clear that something _is_ wrong with you…’

Mitarai darted his eyes to the side in dismay and swivelled back and forth in his chair. He was breathing loudly, like before, when he suddenly felt light-headed. The Imposter reluctantly resigned themself to the idea of having to treat him again, to the idea of delving into their special snack stash. They blinked in concealed irritation. Meanwhile, the animator had begun to rub furiously at the back of his neck, mussing his dishevelled up-do even more. ‘N-nothing is…no, I’m fine, honestly, don’t worry.’

The Imposter stared disbelievingly, not saying a word. Mitarai seemed to try desperately to avoid their glare, but as the seconds passed in silence, he began to fidget increasingly aggressively with anything and everything: at first the drawstrings on the waistband of his pyjama pants, then his chewed and uneven fingernails, then his bony shoulder which he began scratching at alarmingly aggressively. He neglected to make any kind of eye contact with them.

‘Mitarai, something’s up with you. Please tell me,’ they spoke sincerely. It wasn’t a request but a statement. ‘Are you feeling unwell again or what?’

‘N-no!’ he spluttered explosively. He now looked upset rather than angry.

‘It’s just…’ he groaned ‘I’m really s-sorry, okay? It’s just been a really slow a-and…a massively u-unproductive day is all, a-and I’m…I’m having loads of trouble with this super essential scene, and…’ He trailed off, his speech losing coherency in the same way as it had done the other night. Plastering his hands to his eyes and throwing his head backwards in exasperation, his account ended with an unattractive extended groan-like noise.

The Imposter raised one eyebrow. ‘Have you been keeping your promise?’

He didn’t budge from his anguished position in the chair. ‘…Promise?’ he croaked.

The Imposter was hit by a swell of frustration and disappointed disbelief. They crossed their arms over their vast chest and cocked their head to one side. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

Mitarai seemed to take a few seconds to register their response, his body still rigidly fixed in his frustrated pose. It was becoming clearer and clearer to the Imposter’s dismay that he absolutely had not been keeping his promise.

‘…Oh yeah…that…’ he murmured almost silently.

The Imposter took to their feet and marched to the animator’s chair, no longer attempting to hide their irritation. Gripping the back of his chair firmly, they joltingly turned Mitarai around so he was facing them head-on, the boy letting out a loud yelp and flailing his arms wildly in surprise.

‘Mitarai,’ they spoke quietly, harshly, right in the animator’s face. ‘You promised me you would start eating right and sleeping better.’

‘I-I have!’ he cried indignantly, clenching his fists, looking the Imposter dead in the eye. Up close, they could identify a sheen of clammy sweat on his forehead, despite the fact that the room was freezing. ‘I _have_ been keeping my p-promise! How c-can _you_ tell whether I have or I haven’t?!

‘It’s really, really obvious,’ they deadpanned. Mitarai made an attempt to swivel himself away from the Imposter’s gaze but the chair wouldn’t budge under their strength. ‘You’ve got a terrible attitude today and you don’t look well at all.’

The boy’s angry expression was suddenly tinged with guilt and he darted his eyes to the floor, picking at his fingernails aggressively. When he spoke it was much quieter than before.

‘I-I told you I was sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just…just that I’ve b-been stuck on the same…the same few _goddamn_ frames for days on end and…and it’s just all _wrong…_ ’

Silence.                                                                                    

‘There’s just…there’s n-no damn time…’ he spoke in a low voice.

The Imposter made a mental note of this: what did he mean? Time for what? They stowed the thought it in the back of their mind.

The Imposter’s expression softened and they sighed. ‘…You know that is no excuse to not- ‘

‘I _have_ been eating and sleeping properly!’ he bit back. ‘That’s not fair, to just…just _assume_ that I haven’t kept my promise to you; I have! I’ve been taking food breaks and everything!’

The Imposter quickly inspected the bedroom. They could identify no sign that Mitarai had been making any more of an effort than he had been before: his bed was perfectly made, the sheets crisp and obviously not slept in that day. Not only could they spot no traces of food having been consumed, neither on his desk nor in his bin, but there was also no sign that he had been keeping himself hydrated during the day. 

‘Show me, then.’

Mitarai paled. ‘Huh?’

‘You say you’ve been taking food breaks. I want evidence. Show me.’

The animator swallowed, meshing his bony fingers together and swivelling round to face his desk, which the Imposter allowed this time. ‘R-right...of course.’ His hand travelled shakily to open the top draw in his desk. He had started shivering again.

From inside the draw he pulled out two powder pink cardboard cartons with a terrifying cartoon-y graphic of some shiny-eyed mouse-bunny-panda hybrid creature on the front.

‘Here, told you.’ He shoved the boxes, one of which was unopened and the other half-full, into the Imposter’s hands and they narrowed their eyes.

‘Are…are these cookies?’ Reaching one stubby hand into the box they pulled out a tiny, pale biscuit in the shape of the monstrous creature displayed the front. Breaking it in half, they found that it was filled with a slimy pink-ish cream. Their gaze switched to the animator, who was wringing his hands together, nervously awaiting a verdict.

‘Literally, are you kidding me?’ They held the box of biscuits in front of them and allowed them to drop to the floor. Mitarai looked personally offended.

‘H-hey! They’re my favourite!’ He scrambled onto the floor and snatched up the box, hugging it close to his chest defensively.

‘You know the nutritional value of these things?’ They shook the half-full packet accusingly. ‘Take a guess: they have none! You need food that will give you energy!’ Why did no one else seem to understand the value of a bucket of fried chicken as much as they did?

‘G-give them back!’ Mitarai reached out to snatch them from the Imposter. They swiped the box away from him.

‘Mitarai, you can’t expect to live off these. Don’t you know how unhealthy this is?!’

‘H-hold on a s-second; let me talk!’ Reluctantly, the Imposter shut their mouth and gestured for him to go ahead, knowing full well they kind of crappy excuse that was coming and preparing themself to counter it.

Mitarai’s face was flushed with embarrassment and stress, the sheen of sweat on his forehead more noticeable than before. ‘…When I…well, when I went to the doctor the other day, I-I went into town on the way back. I-I got some dinner for that night a-and also these.’ His eyes darted nervously to the cookies in his arms. ‘Yesterday a-and well, t-today, I meant to g-go out again, you know, because going out i-is healthy right? And I meant to buy m-more food, you know?’ He looked up at the Imposter desperately. ‘I h-have been trying my best to keep my promise!’

The Imposter didn’t allow themself to react, besides looking generally unconvinced. They didn’t want to derail the rest of Mitarai’s story, which they could tell from his expression wasn’t yet finished.

‘…But…recently...I just…’ He scrubbed his eyes with his palms, once again tilting his head back in frustration. ‘everything I’ve been doing…all my work…all my drawings…my animation…’

The Imposter waited silently.

‘It’s all been absolute crap!’ His hands travelled up his head and began furiously gripping sections of unkempt, tousled hair, causing his ponytail to come undone. Pieces of coarse hair fell over his face in every direction. ‘Uninspiring, unhopeful, m-mediocre crap! E-everything I try to do just l-looks…bland and b-boring and t-terrible!’

Well…that certainly explained why he had been in such a foul mood.

The Imposter said nothing. Once again, the hum of the monitors was the only sound in the room.

Mitarai’s hands had returned to shielding his eyes, his shoulders hunched, his knees pulled up onto the chair and now glued to his chest. He just looked…so small.

‘I’ve been trying…’ he whispered. God, was he seriously crying again? ‘Trying to do what you told me…I honestly have…but I’ve had no time to s-stop lately. There…there is n-no time! T-two days now I’ve made barely a-any progress at all. D-do you understand? I-I haven’t had _time_ to s-stop and go out…I haven’t had _time_ to take breaks…’

He sniffled, his body folding in on itself even tighter. ‘I…I desperately wanted to keep my promise to you. I told you I was grateful…and I w-wasn’t lying! I c-can’t have you think I’m l-lying about that…b-but it’s…it’s just really hard right now, and n-nothing is going right and… _and I can’t stop._ You understand that, right?’

No. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand why Mitarai thought he was running out of time, why he had invented this imaginary time limit that forced him to work every hour of every day. Was he naturally lazy and this was some screwed up way to force himself to be productive? They didn’t understand what the hell this project was, this mystery anime that will supposedly bring people “comfort and solace and hope”. They didn’t understand why he thought the best cure for his art block, which had obviously been caused by his over-exhaustion and malnutrition, was to continue to work until he was even more unhealthy. They didn’t understand how he couldn’t identify the vicious circle that was his lifestyle. They didn’t understand why he had made that promise to them, why he had gone on and on about being grateful to them, only to ignore their advice and go back on his word. They didn’t understand why he couldn’t simply put down the pen and go to sleep, why he couldn’t take a day or two off, why he didn’t see that he was destroying his physical and mental health day by day. The Imposter found it all incredibly frustrating. Frustrating and sad.

They wanted to scold him more, to tell him exactly what they thought, to tell him why he was an idiot and why what he was doing to himself was dangerous. But looking at the physical and emotional wreck in front of them, they simply couldn’t bring themself to. They slowly approached the desk. Mitarai hadn’t budged in his chair, his tiny form trembling both from the cold and from the stress. They placed one hand gently on his shoulder. He was absolutely freezing.

‘…Mitarai…if you keep doing this to yourself…’

Mitarai's body wracked with sobs. Through the thin fabric of his tee they could see the bumps of his spine.

‘…You could...you could literally die…’

His whimpering hung in the air, combined with that blasted humming. The Imposter wanted to smash the monitors up so the poor kid could never animate again.

‘Don’t you see?’ they knelt down to bring themself face-to-face with the animator, although his eyes were still covered by his hands. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? Don’t you understand that it is impossible for you to be productive in this state? You’re shooting yourself in the foot; you are the one stopping yourself from doing good work.’

The fingers on one hand spread to reveal a bloodshot, tear-filled eye.

‘Look…’ they spoke softly. ‘You told me…that night, the night we met. You told me that you feel... like you can…trust me.’ Admitting that that had actually happened was not nearly so difficult as it was to say it out loud. As they spoke, their voice cracked obviously, and their chest ached with the same fizzing energy as before. ‘Am I wrong?’

Mitarai snivelled, slowly shaking his head. The Imposter swallowed.

‘…If you…if you _trust_ me…’ ( _Dammit_ why was that so hard to say?) ‘You will take my advice and _stop doing this to yourself.’_ They spoke as slowly and clearly as possible.

For a few seconds, Mitarai didn’t respond. Then, a tiny voice emerged from the tangle of limbs on the chair.

‘B-but...I-I don’t have any time…’

What the hell did he even mean?!

‘Yeah, I believe you mentioned that.’

‘I-I…I can’t stop…I…I just…’

‘If you don’t give yourself a break, you’ll just collapse like last time. You’ll become so unwell that it will be impossible for you to work. The quality of your anime will start to suffer and all your hard work will have been for nothing.’ They hadn’t wanted to say it so bluntly, but it had become clear that the only way to get through to this boy was to say things in such a way.

‘B-but…my anime…my anime is…’

‘Your anime is your whole life. Yes, I know. Mitarai, you don’t think I understand exactly how you feel?’

Mitarai finally moved, raising his head slightly.

'My…my whole life I’ve relied on my only talent, on my ability to impersonate people. I’ve done the same thing as you…I’ve let that talent consume me…and eat away at me. I’ve been absolutely convinced that, without my ability, I am nothing at all. But...’

They clenched their fist and pressed their lips together. Had they ever been so truthful about themself to anyone in their whole life? 

'…But all I was doing was…was destroying myself from the inside…and that’s what _you’re_ doing to yourself, Mitarai, and you know you are. You _know_ you need to stop this.’

Mitarai’s face had finally emerged from behind his hands. He stared into the Imposter’s eyes bitterly, and they could identify something in his gaze that had previously been invisible: genuine comprehension, as if their words had finally penetrated his shell of stubbornness. Without doubt, that much in Mitarai had suddenly changed. They could see it as clear as day.

‘ _Please_ stop working. Take the rest of the day off. Go to sleep. I promise you will wake up feeling refreshed.’ Maybe when he woke up, they could actually ask to borrow some of his animation equipment without ending up baring their soul in an attempt get him to rest and eat a proper meal.

He was silent for a long time, his breathing heavy, his tear stained cheeks frighteningly pale.

‘…Y-you're right…' he spoke unbelievably softly. '...You are...you are absolutely right...'

'...I’ll…I’ll go to bed…’

‘Now?’

He grimaced, but nodded gently. The Imposter could see how much he didn't want to sleep, didn't want to stop. But he was also too exhausted to fight them anymore. Shame and embarrassment stained his features as he slowly untangled his limbs, another series of ugly popping sounds following.

The Imposter gave a sincere smile. ‘Thank you Mitarai…’ Something inside them felt so blissfully warm, so genuinely happy that Mitarai was listening to them and seeming to absorb their advice instead of just timidly nodding along. For the first time in their memory they felt as if they had truly connected with someone, had truly inspired them, and this was all without a false identity to hide behind.

Mitarai climbed off the chair, dragging himself in the general direction of the perfectly made bed on the other side of the room, his shoulders slumped, his eyes already half-closed.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ They chortled quietly, thinking about how what was supposed to be such a simple and brief visit had turned into such an emotional affair, only to actually have Mitarai _finally_ give in. ‘I still need to borrow stuff.’

‘…Yeah…sure thing…’

By the time Mitarai had replied, he had already fallen face-first onto the bed. Within seconds he was fast asleep, the sound of steady and rhythmic breathing merging with the hum of the monitors, which he had been too tired to remember to switch off. The Imposter smiled and approached the bed as silently as they could. Thinking about how cold it was, they took the end of the duvet and delicately folded it over the boy hanging off the side of the bed. It wasn’t exactly a typical or comfortable looking sleeping position, but as long as he was asleep, they didn’t really care.

As they shut the light off and gently shut the door on their way out, they began to question why they found themself caring so much, why they hadn’t been able to stick to the conclusion they had made only two days ago that Mitarai’s health was his problem and not theirs, why the sight of the idiotic boy working himself to death had made them more sad than it had frustrated. They still didn’t know, and something inside of them didn’t wish to know. They didn’t want to address the concept of Mitarai actually _trusting_ them and getting to know the version of them that they had always kept hidden under some disguise. They didn’t want to think about that all-telling look in his eyes when they had told him they had felt exactly the same way about themself as he did about himself. They didn’t want to admit the fact that they had twisted the truth, that they had made it seem like that sense of isolation and torment was a thing of their past, when, in fact, they still felt it every day. The way their interactions with the animator were making them feel was scary and unknown and upsetting, but also incredibly welcome to the Imposter, who had thought they were finally used to that feeling of all-consuming emptiness.

And they wanted to look after him, to be close to him. The boy was a pain in the ass, a delusional idiot, a brat that was either crying or apologising or on the verge of having a total meltdown. But they wanted to be able to make as much of an impact on his life as they had realised he had made on theirs after only two short days of knowing each other.

\---------------

They stopped by his room much later that night, having ordered dinner from their favourite fried chicken place. The door was unlocked, just as they had left it, and, to their relief, Mitarai was still sound asleep in exactly the same position on the bed as they had left him. Smiling, they set one bucket of chicken and a bottle of still water on his desk and silently exited the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dw ya'll the fic won't exclusively be abt mitarai being pathetic and suffering constantly, just rn cos it's still the beginning and i imagine that it takes a while for sagishi to make him healthy (ofc before the events of episode 5 happen and he passes out again :/ )  
> also i hc that mitarai is capable of being a shitty little brat when suffering from art block, like don't lie obvs he is a cinnamon roll but can also suffer from the worst mood swings ever.


	4. Chapter 4

They returned the following day, as promised. Knocking on the door once again they could only feel a muddy blend of apprehension and mild excitement: apprehension because their previous encounter had been so emotionally charged, and they couldn’t tell what extreme mood Mitarai could be in today. Excitement because their time with the animator the night before had made them feel a sense of purpose, a sense that they were a real person who was complex and layered. A sense that they weren’t just a shell, a ghost that stole the complex identities of others. They wanted to feel that again. As much as it felt bizarre to say that they were “excited” to see the kid, it was becoming quite hard to imagine another way of describing it. They didn’t understand it, any of it: it was all confusing and new and upsetting and affecting them far too quickly, far too easily. They knew that, and were incredibly surprised at themself. But whatever these crazy Ryota Mitarai-related emotions were, they made them feel…bizarrely and inexplicably human.

As soon as they had knocked they received an answer. Their apprehension melted away almost instantly.

‘Hello?’ came a voice from behind the door. It sounded bright and welcoming, with that hint of perpetual uneasiness that Mitarai seemed permanently afflicted by.

‘It’s me,’ they called. They didn’t have to say anything else before they heard sounds of movement, the door creaking open seconds later and Mitarai appearing before them in the hallway. They could immediately tell he had slept the night through; his skin was far less grey than it had appeared the day before, his eyes no longer clouded over with bitterness or exhaustion. He wore the same smile he had showed them when he had been eating their instant noodles.

‘G-good morning!’ he spoke cheerfully ‘Or is it afternoon…?’ He started fumbling in his pocket for his mobile. Meanwhile, the Imposter could only smile, filled with an overflowing sense of achievement that Mitarai actually looked semi-alive today. And they were blissfully aware that it was because of them, because _they_ had opened up to him like they had, because _they_ had forced him to go to sleep.

‘Morning,’ they spoke back, not allowing themself to make their smile obvious.

‘…A-afternoon, actually...’ Mitarai stared at his phone anxiously, drumming his thumb feverishly against its smooth edge. They could see concern rapidly etching itself into his features; did this mean he had only just woken up? The Imposter assumed he must have realised that he’d already slept through half a day of work. His whole body suddenly seemed to tense. The Imposter smirked at this behaviour that was rapidly becoming familiar to them. They placed a warm and chubby hand on his shoulder. The tapping of his thumb against the phone suddenly went silent, and he looked up into the Imposter’s reassuring eyes.

‘Alright, good afternoon, then.’

A small smile broke on Mitarai’s lips and his shoulders relaxed a little under their grip. He took a deep shaky breath. ‘Y-yeah, right!’

Mitarai slipped his phone into the pocket of his pyjama trousers, the same pair he had been wearing yesterday.

‘I’m sorry if I woke you up…’ they spoke concernedly, following the animator into his room; his movements were so much less sluggish than the day before. They glanced to his desk, spying the cold bucket of chicken and the water. It looked as if he’d at least had a piece of chicken or two, and the bottle of water was just over half empty.

‘No, no, n-not at all.’ He looked back at them and smiled while clambering onto his bed and pulling the thick covers around his small shoulders. Cocooned in masses of thick duvet, he let out a loud, ugly yawn, rubbing his eyes lazily. ‘I woke up…around 10 minutes ago, I guess? Lay in bed…had some breakfast…’ Opening his eyes, his focus darted to the cold chicken on the desk, one finger scratching his cheek gently. ‘T-thank you so much for that, b-by the way! It’s really delicious! I can give you the money back for it, obviously…’

The Imposter crossed their arms and grinned widely. ‘There’s no need for that, and you’re very welcome. I’m pleased you like it. You know, at the end of the day, fat and sugar content is the only thing in life you can trust.’

Mitarai snickered quietly into his hand. It was the first time they’d ever heard him laugh. It was a pure and pleasant sound.

The room soon faded to silence. The Imposer looked on as Mitarai began to draw his knees up to his chest under his duvet fortress, gripping the sheets with white knuckles. His eyes rapidly flooded with shame.

‘What’s the matter?’

When he spoke his voice was desperately small. ‘I’m…I need to apologise for how I acted yesterday…I-I was being totally rude…and you were just trying to help me. And I’m sorry I got so…so worked up…’

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s just…a-art block, you know? It makes me really crazy…’

‘It’s honestly fine.

‘…Really crazy and really…really _mean;_ I’m really not always such a pain, or, I don’t know, maybe I a-am, but- ‘

‘Mitarai.’ They sharply cut through his wild ramblings and the animator immediately fell silent. They were so grateful that living as Togami had given them the ability to speak with such confidence, with such control. Even if Ryota Mitarai wasn’t the toughest individual to command.

‘It’s fine. You weren’t feeling well yesterday. Everyone’s entitled to acting that way occasionally.’

With arms folded over his knees Mitarai looked up at the Imposter, chewing his lip anxiously but giving a weak half-smile in response.

‘Heh…thank you…Sagishi.’

The Imposter blinked and swallowed, their throat suddenly dry. They tried their very best to look less taken aback than they really were. Sagishi? That was the first time the animator had referred to them as…well, anything at all. Anything apart from “you”. Being addressed by a title that didn’t belong to somebody else felt monumentally peculiar.

They coughed into their hand, rapidly regaining their composure. ‘S-speaking of not feeling well, how are you today? Better?’

Mitarais expression brightened suddenly.

‘Much, really, thank you!’ he beamed. ‘Well, h-honestly, I’ve got a bit of a migraine…’

The Imposter raised their eyebrows in concern. Mitarai, who must have noticed, waved his hands in front of his face.

‘But it’s okay! I-I took some painkillers when I woke up, j-just waiting for them to kick in now…shouldn't take too long.’

The Imposter sighed. A migraine had to be the result of dehydration, and of cooping himself up indoors without fresh air for days on end. But they didn’t want to start another circular and stressful discussion about all the ways Mitarai was neglecting his health, so they kept quiet. At least he’d had some of the water they’d left last night.

Mitarai made a face as if he’d suddenly remembered something and untangled his limbs from the surrounding mess of bedsheets.  ‘Ah! I know why you’re here!’ He jumped off the bed, the covers still wrapped around his shoulders, and made for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

‘Huh? Really?’ For a second they had forgotten why they came.

Mitarai fell to his knees in front of the wardrobe, the duvet absolutely swamping his scrawny body. He haphazardly threw the doors open and seized a flimsy and overfull cardboard box that looked like it was about to fall apart. He could barely lift it and, surprised by just how heavy it was, let out a strained noise that could have been a curse word but they couldn’t exactly tell. The Imposter rushed to his side, kneeling down. They placed their hands on the underside of the box and, together, the duo heaved the beaten-up box out of the closet.

‘Jeez,’ the Imposter puffed. ‘W-what the heck’s in here anyway?’

Mitarai, out of breath, fell onto his back, the duvet on his shoulders breaking his fall.

‘It’s…animating…gear…’ he spoke between breaths, running a hand across his forehead. ‘You said…yesterday…right?’

The Imposter was shocked; they didn’t think he’d actually remember that, considering how out of it he was both times they brought it up.

‘Oh yes, of course. Thank you.’ They waited for Mitarai to sit up before opening the box; they didn’t want to touch any valuable equipment without express permission from the resident expert. Peering inside, it was full of…other boxes, mostly: other boxes full of tangled cables, full of tablet pens, full of little attachments, full of traditional art materials, full of unidentifiable, high-tech-looking objects that they couldn’t begin to imagine the purpose of. They suddenly felt overwhelmed; _how_ would they possibly convince _anyone_ that animating was their talent? This world was so much more complicated than it appeared on the surface.

Mitarai eventually pulled out a slim black tablet that looked worn and slightly scratched. Holding it in front of his face he blew gently at the dust on the screen. When that apparently didn’t work he grabbed a corner of his duvet and scrubbed at it.

‘This was my first tablet. Got it for my…9th birthday. It’s portable, pretty easy to use as well. I mean, it’s kinda beat-up but it should still work if I charge it. You should get the hang of this pretty quickly.’

The Imposter could only nod along and pretend to understand more than they did.

‘I can import some of my current projects onto this, so when people ask to see your work you can show them those.’

They noted how much more confident and assured his voice was when he talked about animation, almost to the point of sounding arrogant. He seemed so sure of what he was talking about, so totally invested in it. Of course, this could just be an effect of feeling less unwell than before.

‘Of course, it’s still got all my…my old work on it…’ his eyes darted to the side and he looked embarrassed. His voice was suddenly quiet. ‘You…you don’t need to show that to anyone…’

The Imposter smirked and raised one eyebrow. ‘Any particular reason why you say that?’ They prayed the real reason wasn’t as creepy as Mitarai had made it sound.

He blushed and shook his head furiously, suddenly looking dazed. ‘N-no! God, no, n-nothing like that! I meant that it’s stuff from when I was way younger, so it’s all pretty bad is all…my style was evolving at the time, o-okay?’

The Imposter chuckled. ‘Right, right, sure.’

Mitarai aggressively avoided eye contact but smirked briefly before delving back into the box. He pulled out a box of pens. Of _even more_ pens, double the amount in the pots on the desk.

‘These styluses are kind of old, too, but they should still work. Only these ones…’ he pointed to the sleek logo on the side of one of the pens ‘…will work with the tablet I gave you. I’ll lend you a few and if any don’t work or stop working y-you can return them to me.’

‘Okay…’

Mitarai must have noticed how uneasy the Imposter looked. ‘O-of course, you don’t actually need to draw anything yourself, but it’s probably best to learn how to…you know, make yourself look like you can. P-plus, who knows? You might discover a hidden passion!’ He smiled up at them, thrusting multiple pens, as well as a bunch of charging cables, into their hands. They couldn’t bear to think about how expensive this collection had to have been – how could he possibly afford all this stuff?

The animator got to his feet and padded over to the desk. ‘You also wanted photocopies of my character sheets and my storyboards, right?’

The Imposter nodded, eyeing the open box and the surrounding clutter on the floor. Mitarai raised a hand to his cheek and nervously pulled at the darker skin shading his lower eyelid. ‘…I’ll get to clearing that up later...’

They raised an eyebrow, not quite able to imagine how he would possibly get that monster of a box back in the cupboard all by himself, but stood up and followed him to the desk nonetheless, where he had begun leafing carefully through the pristine white sheets.

‘Copying all of this will be…r-really expensive…so I guess…’ he began picking individual sheets out from the pile ‘…we can just copy the most important ones…some storyboards, some of Hanako…’

‘…Who is Hanako?’

Mitarai paused, swiped a leaf of paper from the pile, and held it firmly in front of the Imposter, his eyes wide with a kind of wild self-assurance. On the paper were multiple sketches of the joyful girl in the sundress who had been on his screen that first night. ‘My main character.’

\------------------------------

Mitarai accompanied them to the computer rooms.

_‘You should come, too.’_

_He looked immediately stressed, clenching his fists, his eyes darting towards the desk. ‘O-oh…I, well I appreciate the offer, but I really shouldn’t…the day’s already h-half over and I haven’t done anything…’_

_‘I know you haven’t, but you need to get some fresh air in your lungs; it’s terribly unhealthy to hide away in your room all day.’_

_Mitarai frowned, chewing on his lip and wringing his hands. ‘Jeez, you s-say everything I do is unhealthy…’_

_The Imposter ignored him._

_‘It will also help with your migraine: if you want to be productive this afternoon you should at least consider it.’_

_Mitarai rolled his eyes anxiously and sighed, crossing his arms. ‘B-but…I…’ He seemed to be talking to himself more than to the Imposter. They could only wait patiently as he debated the idea with himself._

_‘Y-yeah…I guess you have a point... a-and it’s only 5 minutes away I suppose…but I’m starting work as soon as we get b-back!’_

_They closed their eyes and sighed. ‘…Fine with me.’ They didn’t have the energy to try and convince him to take the whole day (heck, the whole week) off, although they knew he really should._

_They looked him up and down hesitantly; he was still wearing his tattered pyjamas from the day before. ‘…I’m not letting you come with me wearing that…’_

Mitarai now wore his full school uniform, paired with a soft red scarf wrapped around his neck.

‘You know, dressed like that, you can almost pass for a regular student,’ they smirked as the duo made their way to the main campus. Mitarai glanced up at them, looking as if he was about to attempt some witty comeback. Instead, he quietly made an exaggerated laughing noise that dripped with sarcasm. The Imposter chortled quietly. It was one of those glorious winter days where the sun was scintillatingly bright and warm, yet cast dark pools of cold, inky shadows that spilled lazily over the earth. It was the weekend, but barely anyone was about, the odd wandering student here and there. As winter exams got nearer, fewer and fewer students dared to leave their rooms for anything other than classes, and sometimes not even for them.

‘So, tell me…’ they started, looking down at the shorter boy walking beside them. ‘What is this project, this anime you’re working on?’

Mitarai stopped walking abruptly, which the Imposter didn’t realise until they were a few steps in front. Looking back at the boy, he had begun to blush furiously, his head dipped halfway into his scarf so they couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or frowning.

‘You…You wanna know? You really wanna know about my anime?’ Something in his muffled voice sounded ecstatic.

The Imposter narrowed their eyes jokingly. ‘… _Do_ I really wanna know?’

‘…W-well, all I mean is that my project is kind of hard to explain…’ Mitarai made a light jog to re-join the Imposter’s side and the pair continued to walk.

‘It is?’

‘I-it’s just that, honestly…in the grand scheme of things, I only just s-started work on it…’ he muttered softly into his scarf, briefly lifting his head to blow warm air onto his ivory hands. ‘I began production on it as I entered H-Hope’s Peak…’

Something in their mind began to piece everything together: that had to explain why the Mitarai in the photo they had found during their research had looked so much healthier than the skinny, pale creature walking next to them. They sighed inwardly.

‘So…that makes it hard to explain because…?’

‘Because -’ he spoke more assertively this time, before closing his eyes and pulling his scarf back over the lower half of his face. ‘…Because i-it’s all still in the very early stages of development, you know? Really, I’ve only just scratched the surface of what my anime is going to be…what it’s meant to be. I have…all m-my concepts and my characters and my plot…but…’

The Imposter didn’t fully understand why the fact that he’d only just started work on it meant that it was hard to talk about. But they stayed silent, allowing themself to simply listen.

‘…But…even now…even though I know _exactly_ what I want to create…even though I’ve planned everything down to the last d-detail…it all just feels really…really distant. Like it’s all nothing but a dumb fever dream…’

Mitarai seemed totally lost in his words, his face glazed over with some profound yet unidentifiable emotion: he seemed to doubt himself _so_ much, yet he also radiated a deeply powerful sense of barely concealed self-assurance that he didn’t even seem to recognise within himself. The sharp, watery light of the winter sun illuminated the usually dull amber of his eyes, and they could see, even if only for a second, his unbreakable determination to make whatever this anime was something more than just a rosy vision. It was utterly overwhelming.

‘...So you do know exactly what you want to create?’

Mitarai nodded silently, automatically, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead of him but nowhere in particular. There was a trace of a smile on his lips.

‘…Can you explain it to me? Or at least try?’ At this point they really were genuinely curious.

The animator breathed out, casting a cloud of white air. His smile widened and he narrowed his eyes. ‘…Simply put…it will be an anime that brings hope to anyone who sees it. It will…it will offer people comfort…and solace…and _redemption…’_

The Imposter swallowed.

‘…Hope, huh...’

They were filled with a gutting feeling of pure cynicism; Mitarai treated this one project like it was his whole life, like it was his reason for existing. He worked tirelessly, sacrificing his health and his social life in the process. He had been hand-picked to join one of the world’s most prestigious high schools, yet he so far hadn’t attended a single class, hadn’t made memories with any of his classmates. Everything he did seemed to revolve around this anime, yet they simply couldn’t see how it was possible to create a piece of art that brought hope to anyone that saw it. People were infinitely complicated and infinitely varying: the Imposter had managed to learn that much from spending their life darting from one identity to another, each time becoming somebody entirely different to the time before. How did Mitarai think it was possible to create something that inspired a unanimous and universal sense of hope? How was he able to imagine even for a second he could offer people redemption and relief from all the draining pains of life just by showing them a homemade animation? These thoughts were upsetting to them, considering just how dedicated Mitarai was to his creation. But they couldn’t help feeling that the boy was just…unbelievably deluded.

‘You know…’ he whispered into his scarf ‘…anime saved me. It offered me hope and consolation at a time when I…when I r-really…I _h-hated_ my life. All I want is to be able to give that feeling of salvation to other people…a-and I _know_ I have the ability to do that, I just _know_ it.’

The Imposter stayed silent because they didn’t know what to say. It was lovely that anime had affected him in such a profound way but…that didn’t mean it would do the same for everybody, or, in fact, _anybody_ else. They wanted to know what had happened to him, how _painful_ his life had been to make him so vulnerable to the point that anime felt like his only comfort.

‘…But why did you choose to start work on this thing just as you came to Hope’s Peak? Seems like an error in judgement to me…’

That was not one of the burning questions on their mind. However, they couldn’t face the idea of telling Mitarai how they truly felt about his plan, the idea of seeing his smile drop and tears starting to well in his eyes that were so full of hope and determination. They knew they were being pathetic but they simply couldn’t do it.

‘I started work on it _because_ I was joining Hope’s Peak,’ he spoke steadily, knotting his fingers together. ‘Hope’s Peak gave me the confidence and, well…m-more importantly the _time_ to actually do it.’

He began to appear increasingly uncomfortable, but pressed on; ‘M-my parents were never c-crazy about how much I loved anime; they told me it was a nice hobby but that it got in the way of…of my _real_ life and _real_ relationships. T-they said I couldn’t p-possibly make a living from doing it myself. A-and then I got offered a place at Hope’s Peak because one of the short animations I put on my blog suddenly got p-pretty popular and the talent scouts here apparently found it. It kinda…it felt like my abilities were finally being… being _validated_ , you know? Like other people could finally see how…how much I _loved_ anime…like they could actually see a future for me in the anime industry, which f-felt…it was like a _dream_!’

The Imposter walked beside him, watching him silently as he rambled. His eyes had grown almost feverishly wide and bright, his hands pressed tightly against his chest, a blush spreading over his hollow cheeks.

‘I…I eventually found out about how Hope’s Peak functioned, how they allowed you to skip regular classes s-so long as you hone your skills? And…I mean, at my last high school I was never allowed to do that! My mom and dad made me go to every single class, to never miss a day of school unless like…like “my arm was falling off.” They would _never, ever_ let me miss a day of school to work on my projects. But…but I _hated_ my school; I hated everything about it and everyone there. All I wanted was to…to do the one thing I _knew_ I was good at. A-and, at Hope’s Peak, I could! My parents weren’t there to monitor me anymore, to force me to take part and make friends, and t-the school didn’t mind if I didn’t show up to some…w-well, to _any_ of my classes. I felt…I felt like I was free! And that’s when I finally felt confident enough to commit myself to something _amazing,_ to something that would _really_ make a difference in the world…’

‘But…’ the Imposter sighed quietly, dipping their head and pinching the bridge of their nose.  There was so much they wanted to say to him, and so much they simply _couldn’t,_ so much they just didn’t know how to. He looked so…happy.

Mitarai had turned to them, waiting silently for them to continue. They knew that this lifestyle Mitarai had chosen for himself was wrong in what seemed like an infinite number of ways, and within them was a nagging sense of obligation to tell him so. But then it struck them that their lifestyle wasn’t exactly orthodox either; that, if people knew the truth about them, the Imposter would very likely be accused of being some kind of mentally ill sociopath. They had chosen a life of stealing others’ identities, of lying to everyone they met, of refusing to live the life that belonged to them. And Mitarai had accepted that. Not only had he accepted it, but he had allowed the Imposter to live his life for him, to continue living the only way they understood how to. For them to turn around and call out Mitarai for living a life that most probably considered unnatural was no way to treat a boy who had given them so much in such a short time.

‘…It’s nothing…’

\-----------------------------------------------

A few days later, the Imposter received a knock on their door for the first time ever. They jumped and raised a flabby hand to their cheek, picking at the skin under their eye nervously.

‘H-hello?’ they called out in a voice they had never used before.

The visitor went silent for a while.

‘…Um…are you in there? Is…is that you?’ came the voice from the hall. It was immediately identifiable as Mitarai’s. The Imposter swallowed anxiously and sat down at their desk in preparation.

‘Yes…it’s m-me…c-come in,’ they called back meekly.

‘U-um…right, okay…’

The door began to open slowly and Mitarai stepped in, his eyes fixed to a small packet that he clutched to his chest.

‘I-I just came because, well, the other day when I gave you all that stuff I totally forgot to give you any spare stylus nibs, a-and well, trust me you’ll- ‘

His sentence was cut short by an ear-splitting squawk as his eyes fell on the Imposter’s new face for the first time. Losing his balance entirely, Mitarai fell backwards onto his butt, the back of his head colliding with the closed door and creating a dull clunking sound. The Imposter, genuinely alarmed but also very mildly amused, took to their feet and rushed to Mitarai’s side, kneeling down next to the boy who was rubbing his head.

‘O-oh God, are you okay? I’m sorry, that was all my fault, wasn’t it?’ They threw one hand to their head in a panic and pressed their lips together. It took Mitarai a few seconds to stop hissing in pain and actually open his eyes. When he finally did, his complexion turned incredibly pale almost immediately. He raised a trembling hand and pointed at the Imposter.

‘Oh m-my God…’ he whispered, nipping aggressively at the peeling skin on his lip. ‘Y-you’re…you…you look like…you’re me!’

The Imposter pulled nervously at their green Hope’s Peak tie with one hand and planted the other in their new hair, scratching at the wig worriedly. Eventually, a small smirk broke onto their lips and they allowed their previously panicked eyes to relax.

‘What do you think?’

Mitarai looked on open-mouthed at his doppelganger, at the newest version of the Super High School Level Imposter. He began to blink rapidly, as if he thought he was hallucinating. After a few long seconds, the corners of his lips began to curve into a strange, crooked, gaping smile. He breathed out and clutched at his chest, creating creases in the fabric of his uniform.

‘You look exactly like me!’ he spoke almost manically, eyes wide in fascination. One shaky hand wandered up to the Imposter’s face and he began brushing his cold fingers against their cheeks and nose, much to their chagrin. They wore a mask, however, so they didn’t stop him.

‘That….t-that’s so…that’s so _weird_! How are you doing that?! You look _exactly_ like me!’ They couldn’t entirely tell whether he was in awe or in a state of total panic. Probably both.

‘Do you understand my Ultimate Talent now?’

The pair did look exactly alike. Well, not exactly: the size difference was utterly enormous, the two body types being so incredibly different it was almost comical. However, in every other respect, the pair could not look or sound more the same.

‘A-are…are you wearing a mask?’ Mitarai spoke, his voice barely above a trembling whisper. When the Imposter replied they mimicked his voice exactly and fixed their eyes to the floor.

‘Y…y-yes, yes I am…I’m sorry…’

‘I- s-stop it, I don’t talk like that!’ his voice was loud and almost annoyed, but that peculiar smile was beginning to form on his lips again. He let out a breathy laugh and scraped his nailed through his hair.

‘T-this is so confusing…’

When the Imposter replied they were no longer imitating Mitarai’s tone of voice and way of speaking, however they kept the voice itself.

‘You can still feel free to back out of this if you find it too strange, as long as you take into account just how much effort went into forming this disguise- ‘

‘No,’ the animator interrupted. He let out another soft laugh and scratched his cheek. ‘It’s…it’s incredible! I mean, it will take some getting used to…’

‘Naturally.’

‘…But…’

He went silent, as if he were still having trouble processing the situation.

‘B-but what Mitarai?’ Their voice had switched back to imitating the animator’s.

Mitarai arched his back as if chills had run down his spine. ‘Oh my G-god that is so weird you _need_ to stop doing that!’

The Imposter chuckled and stood up, grabbing onto Mitarai’s arm gently, and taking the bewildered animator with them across the room to the floor length mirror in the door of the Imposter’s wardrobe. Standing together in front of the mirror, Mitarai seemed to pale even more, laughing nervously and rubbing his neck.

‘Pretty convincing, right?’

Mitarai stared down their reflections for a few seconds. ‘…H-how did you even find a mask like that?’

The Imposter pinched their soft, rosy cheeks and smirked. ‘I know a guy. You give him a photo and he makes you a mask. Have known him for years and he still doesn’t know my true identity.’

‘R-right…sure…’ the animator swallowed, his eyes glued to the floor once again.

The Imposter took to hunching their shoulders and waving their hands in front of their face. ‘I-I told you, i-if you’re finding this weird we c-can always call it off…!’

‘O-okay that is definitely over-exaggerated!’ Mitarai spoke up, a half-smile on his face. They could tell he was trying his hardest not to sound or look like the Imposter’s impression, to deepen his voice slightly and keep his shoulders slouched with his twitchy hands fallen restlessly at his sides.

To be fair, it was an exaggeration. That was the point. Mitarai didn’t usually sound quite so panicked and jumpy, and since their first few meetings he had begun to act far more at ease around the Imposter. They had to put that down to him not being quite so exhausted and ill as before, as well as the fact that the pair were beginning to feel much more comfortable in each other’s company.

‘…It is an exaggeration, I-I know…I hope you don’t…well you don’t mind, except y-you should understand that I need to play a character in an e-exaggerated way…that’s k-kinda how it works…’

Mitarai laughed that same pure, pleasant, although slightly nervous, laugh and threw a hand to his forehead. ‘This is just nuts! I-it’s like you’re actually me…’

‘…T-that’s…that’s kinda how it works…’ the Imposter stammered, intentionally using the same phrasing as before. The animator looked at them with an indignant blush, to which they responded by clapping a hand to his shoulder and smirking, dropping Mitarai’s mannerisms instantly.

‘You really can tell me at any time if this is too strange for you and you want me to stop. There are always more people to impersonate…’ They prayed desperately for Mitarai’s answer not to be “yes.”

Mitarai crossed his arms and chewed on his lip aggressively, giving an almost silent, breathy laugh. ‘D-don’t be silly. No way am I backing out of this now! It’s…it’s pretty, well, _really_ weird, I mean, but…’

The Imposter waited.

‘But it’s alright! It’s actually really cool!’

They made their best impression of Mitarai’s sweet, quiet giggle and looked down at him.  At such a perfect imitation of his own laughter his blush intensified, but he managed to tear his gaze from the floor and glance up at the Imposter, if only for a few seconds.

‘Thank you,’ they spoke gently in their natural voice, or at least the “natural” version of their Ryota Mitarai voice.

Mitarai smiled widely before apparently suddenly remembering something and fumbling in his pockets. ‘O-oh, the tablet nibs!’

The Imposter grinned devilishly for a brief second before letting their smile fade to an anxious frown and rubbing the back of their neck. ‘I-I’m sorry…I mean…I’m sorry that this is such…such a hassle for you. I really appreciate it…r-really I d- ‘

‘Okay please, please, _please_ can you stop doing that now _?!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh this was a pretty long one, sorry it took such a long time to upload :00 now dr3 is over i feel like i should be over mitarai/imposter like most people are but...haha lol no.  
> i listened to the 'welcome to the nhk' ost a LOT while writing this like man at this point that might as well be the soundtrack to this story :P  
> next chapter finally aligns with episode 1 of despair arc *legasp*


	5. Chapter 5

Living as Ryota Mitarai was incredibly simple because the Imposter didn’t actually have to _do_ anything. For a while, they debated showing up to class in their new disguise, or rather, showing up to Mitarai’s class 77-B. However, it suddenly occurred to them that the guy they were impersonating was a total shut-in, that the universe had given them a golden opportunity to skip out on classes and do whatever they wanted. Besides, they figured it would be too suspicious if “Ryota Mitarai” suddenly started attending classes after having been absent the entire year; yes, this was a school that tended to forget about its individual students, but surely people would begin to ask questions. So they decided to follow Mitarai’s example and stay well away from the Hope’s Peak student life.

‘But what’s the point in impersonating me if you’re not gonna go to class? Why do you even need to be dressed like that right now?’ the animator asked one cold morning, hunched over his tablet but detached from his work enough to remain engaged in the Imposter’s conversation. That day he wore his school pants and shirt, for whatever reason, paired with an oversized dressing gown draped over his sharp shoulders.

They sighed, placing the coffee and the paper bag they had brought back on his desk and making their way over to the bed with two chocolate muffins in hand. ‘You don’t get it,’ they started, taking a hefty bite. ‘It’s not so much that I need somebody to be in public, I just need somebody to _be_. It’s kind of hard to explain, but the reason I steal people’s identities is because I lack one of my own.’

Mitarai didn’t move in his chair, continuing to scribble away. 

‘I think you have an identity…’

The Imposter sucked in a breath, resulting in the hunk of cake in their mouth going down the wrong way and making them cough and splutter. The balled up their hammy fist and hammered it against their chest, clutching the material of their trousers in discomfort. It was only at this point that Mitarai swivelled round in his chair, eyes blank but rapidly filling with concern the longer the Imposter choked.

‘A-are you okay?’ he clambered off his chair and hurried to the bed, placing a hand on the Imposter’s back and thumping it feebly, probably attempting to help dislodge the piece of muffin.

They raised one shaky hand in an attempt to convey that they were fine, but then lurched forward violently, tears forming in their eyes. Mitarai let out a panicked squeak and, from what they could tell from their limited vision, rushed to the desk to fetch his bottle of water. However, just as he was handing the bottle to the Imposter, the piece of muffin suddenly came un-stuck, the gooey mess landing on their tongue. They wheezed for a few seconds, stumbling through any further coughing, slowly regaining the ability to breath properly again. When they finally opened their eyes the fuzzy image of Mitarai’s concerned expression blurred into view.

‘A-are you…are you better now? You really shouldn’t eat so fast…’

They let out one final cough into their fist and chuckled silently at the irony of Mitarai advising _them_ on what was healthy and what wasn’t.

‘Heh…I’m fine, don’t worry,’ they smirked, taking a quick swig of Mitarai’s water but making sure not to take too much; when this bottle ran out it was highly unlikely that he would go and refill it himself.

The animator smiled and wandered back to his desk, sitting himself down in his chair and spinning back around to face his monitors. Looking at the boy, the Imposter felt contented; he was getting better, there was no doubt about that. As the days went on the dark circles under his eyes were fading little by little, and his deathly pale skin had certainly regained some colour. He still looked sick, but…less like he was about to fall over at any given time. The Imposter had been making sure that he had been keeping his promise: they had been texting him at 12.00 every night, the time the pair had mutually decided on as being his “animation curfew”, telling him to go to bed. From what they could tell he had started sleeping more regularly, although some nights they had been met with a reluctance from the animator. They also knew that he forced himself to wake up absurdly early every day in order to start work straight away, something that they unfortunately couldn’t do anything about.

They popped round to his room every now and again to bring him food; nothing hugely substantial, often leftovers from what they had been snacking on throughout the day, but more than he would consume if they weren’t around. They had quickly gathered that Mitarai didn’t understand the concept of meals, that he seemed to think that nibbling on biscuits was perfectly sufficient to keep himself upright, which they frequently scolded him about. Often they came to his room and found the same snack lying untouched on the desk that they had left the day before, and Mitarai would apologise profusely, sometimes eating it in front of them. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t _want_ to eat, but that, when he was consumed in his animation, his own hunger just didn’t seem to register with him. He still never ventured outside, and barely even budged from his chair unless it was to use the bathroom, so he still often got headaches; he wouldn’t tell them this but it was obvious from the half empty packets of paracetamol on his desk that seemed to run out alarmingly quickly.

They didn’t bring this up with him, though; they didn’t want to feel too much like they were mothering him, partially because they didn’t know how Mitarai would feel about such a relationship; whether he’d appreciate it or feel belittled by it. They couldn’t tell. They themself greatly enjoyed the idea that they were actually making him better, that they were having a positive impact on his life and slowly improving his health. Yet, at the same time, they knew they had to be careful; Mitarai wasn’t a child, and likely didn’t wish to be treated like one (although he certainly acted like one.) The last thing they wanted to do was make the animator start to resent them and close himself off from them, putting his health in danger again. The situation right now was fine; he wasn’t better, far from it, but he was getting there. He wasn’t sleeping, eating, and looking after himself _enough,_ not nearly enough _;_ but he was _trying,_ and they were trying to help him.

‘…Sagishi?’ Mitarai’s gentle voice phased into their ears as they were rapidly brought back to the real world.

‘Huh?’

Mitarai didn’t turn around, but they could hear playfulness when he spoke. ‘You totally zoned out…are you eating right?’

The Imposter let out a hearty laugh. They could tell Mitarai was teasing, that he was purposely being a little pest. ‘What a thought!’ They could hear Mitarai snicker along quietly in his chair.

‘Speaking of…’ they continued, glancing at what they’d left on the table. ‘I brought you back a coffee. Also, something to eat is in the bag.’

Mitarai raised his head from the tablet and jolted his chair round to face the Imposter. He suddenly looked anxious. ‘I keep saying, y-you don’t have to do that! I feel bad, you getting stuff for me all the ti- ‘

‘Hush, hush; please open the bag,’

The animator pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow, scratching his cheek. ‘T-thank you…but I’m going to give you the money back this time, whatever you say!’

The Imposter closed their eyes and nodded, crossing their arms. ‘Yes, yes, fine, whatever you want.’

Mitarai reached into the bag hesitantly and pulled out the toasted sandwich that had to have gone a bit cold by now. He held it in both hands, and looked over at the Imposter with eyes full of gratitude.

‘Don’t let me forget to pay you back for this when I have the time! Promise?’

They chortled. ‘Yes, yes, I promise.’ They had no absolutely no intention of making him pay them back. Mitarai set the sandwich to one side and the Imposter frowned; they could see it now, their loving gift to the animator being totally forgotten. They would come back later and it would still be lying in the exact same spot. They bit back their frustration, telling themself to resist the urge to babysit the boy.

‘And you got me a coffee, too….’ He immediately peered into the brown bag, much to their confusion, because the coffee was on the desk adjacent to it. They answered his question anyway.

‘…Yes. I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee though, so I smuggled out some sugar packets and- ‘

They stopped in their tracks when Mitarai’s body went rigid, his eyes suddenly widened and he lunged one arm into the bag. The Imposter looked on dumbfounded as he rummaged for a good few seconds before pulling his arm out with at least five sugar packets squashed into his fist. He manically began ripping the ends of the sachets one by one and pouring the contents into the paper cup, a strange half-smile on his face. He vaguely resembled a mad scientist perfecting a formula that would put the entire world under his control.

‘So…you like sugary coffee, then…’ The Imposter honestly felt slightly unwell as the third packet of sugar disappeared into the cup. Mitarai didn’t respond for a few seconds. They were about to prompt him before he finally spoke up, his voice slightly dazed.

‘…Yeah…yeah, sugary coffee is…yeah…’ he murmured excitedly while ripping open the fourth sachet. This was getting ridiculous now; surely this had to be the last one. He literally looked like a little kid, one arm wrapped around his bony knees which he rested his chin on as he stared at the white granules dissolving into the drink with eyes the size of dinner plates. The Imposter swallowed, unsure of what to say next.

‘Mitarai…so much sugar is…’

‘Unhealthy? Yeah, I know.’

‘…Right…so...’

‘It makes me super productive, though. And it tastes really good!’

They were torn between standing up, taking the coffee to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink, and actually embracing the fact that he was willing to give up precious animating time to consume calories.

‘You know it makes you productive for all the wrong reasons, right?’ Mitarai, after having emptied the seventh sugar sachet, was stirring the coffee carefully with a wooden stirrer from the bag. It physically hurt them to see a good cup of coffee be tainted like this.

‘Y-yes, I know how caffeine and sugar work,’ he drawled, rolling his eyes almost sarcastically. ‘But it seriously helps me focus!’

‘…So…you can’t focus without putting seven sugars in your coffee?’

Mitarai set down the wet stirrer, leaving a small puddle of coffee on the desk, and turned his chair to face the Imposter head-on, a mildly impatient smile on his face. ‘Yes, I _can_ focus, but this helps me focus _better_ , okay? Besides “f-fat and sugar content is the only thing in life you can trust”, right?’

The Imposter opened their mouth to counter Mitarai’s argument, but, as the seconds passed, nothing came to mind. Smirking, they raised their palms in surrender, realising bitterly that they had been defeated by their own mantra. What a deceptively crafty boy the animator was.

‘…Right, right, fine, whatever…’ They really didn’t have the energy to take the vile drink away from him, and even if they did, they had a feeling that they’d have to pry it from his cold, dead hands. They sighed wearily, eyeing the animator’s smug expression before he swivelled back around to his desk, took the cup in both hands and sipped quietly. For a few seconds there was an enveloping silence. The humming of Mitarai’s monitors filled the room.

‘So…you need to be dressed like me…and talk like me all the time…because you feel like you d-don’t have your own identity…?’

The Imposter blinked; they weren’t expecting him to bring that up again, at least not so soon. Mitarai set the coffee down on the table and grabbed his stylus once more, beginning to tap away silently. Something in his movements and his voice told them he was uncomfortable; it was the same discomfort he had displayed the day they revealed their new disguise to him.

They sighed once more, fingers gently gripping Mitarai’s duvet.

‘…I don’t blame you for not understanding. Honestly, I don’t fully understand it myself, and I probably couldn’t explain it to you even if I tried to; I’ve always had trouble talking about myself…you have every right to feel uneasy about the whole thing.’

Apart from his right hand, which was scribbling wildly, Mitarai was incredibly still. They hated how they couldn’t see his expression when his back was turned to them like this. ‘It’s not that I feel uneasy about it…and I don’t need you to explain yourself to me…’ He paused to take a sip of sugary coffee. When he spoke again, it was almost impossible to hear him. ‘…but…I mean, I told you… _I_ can see an identity in you…c-clearer than anything…’

The Imposter took a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to avoid embarrassing themself like they had earlier, their spine tingling, their fists clenching automatically. He was wrong. He didn’t know anything. But they couldn’t tell him that. ‘And you don’t understand why I can’t see the same thing in myself, is that right?’

Mitarai’s head bobbed in a hesitant nod, his eyes still fixed to the monitors, or at least, the Imposter assumed they were.

They crossed their arms and smiled faintly, inhaling once more. There was nothing truthful they could say to Mitarai that wouldn’t make him upset, that wouldn’t make him insist indignantly that the Imposter _was_ a real person, that they _did_ have a real identity. They simply couldn’t deal with that kind of discussion, with those kinds of dark and dangerous thoughts swirling around in their head again. It was all just too exhausting. ‘…I appreciate what you think you can see in me…I really do. All I can say is…maybe one day I’ll be able to live my life without stealing someone else’s in the process.’

Mitarai’s hand stopped scribbling briefly before starting up again. He didn’t say a word.

Being able to live their life without stealing somebody else’s…

Huh.

What a joke that was.

\---------------------------------------------

It was on the same cold, sunlit afternoon that Chisa Yukizome exploded into their life. They had been alone after leaving Mitarai’s room, eating, fiddling with their borrowed tablet out of sheer boredom in an attempt to familiarise themself with some of its functions. That was the only aspect of being the Ultimate Animator that they still had trouble with; they had “decorated” their room to make it look like an animator’s, (aka they had made a disgusting mess of paper, magazines, and empty food containers that covered every inch of the bedroom) but they still couldn’t actually animate anything, or, for that matter, even draw anything. Not that they really needed to, of course; Mitarai had imported his projects onto the portable tablet like he said he would, and the Imposter had spent many an hour that day watching back the collection. The boy’s work really was magnificent; every character movement, however subtle, seemed to bounce and flow so beautifully off the screen, and every emotion on a character’s face felt so raw, so palpable. The short piece that had gotten him scouted for Hope’s Peak had also been given to them, and, watching it back, they could see why people were so utterly impressed by it. However, Mitarai had not imported any material from his current project, which the Imposter couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at; he had told them that he wouldn’t let anyone see it until he had at least reached the “experimental stage” (whatever that was), but that did nothing to curb their curiosity about this anime that would supposedly bring people hope.

When they first heard the aggressive ramming on the door they were in the middle of lifting a potato chip into their mouth. They blinked; there was no way that was Mitarai – the knocking was far too forceful, too assertive. But if not Mitarai, then…who?

‘Hello in there!’ came a distinctly female voice that sounded like honeysuckle.

The Imposter’s heartrate quickened, a bead of sweat forming on their forehead. They realised very quickly that this was a stranger who had come to see them, that they were going to have to put on their best “Ryota Mitarai” to whoever this woman was. They couldn’t imagine who would want to come visit the animator or _why_ they would; as far as the Imposter knew, Mitarai had no friends whatsoever. Of course, it could be his mother coming to visit, which would be less than ideal for the Imposter as it would be hard for even _them_ to convince the animator’s mother that they were the real deal. If not his mother, then his sister? His doctor?

They stumbled through the endless list of possibilities in their head, and, not knowing quite how to play the situation, simply started improvising: ‘I-I’m sorry, I’ll be done in like…10 more, no! 5 or 6 more pages, okay?!’ They were flustered, sweaty, and honestly couldn’t tell whether it was part of their Mitarai impression or genuinely how they were reacting to the stressful turn of events. They didn’t think of themself as someone who became rattled easily, (in fact, they thought of themself as the opposite), but they had no idea who this mystery woman waiting outside their door was, or even who she could be. Something about the lack of control over this situation was making them genuinely anxious.

‘No excuses; get out here, pronto!’ the voice called back impatiently, continuing to hammer on the door.

They scrambled off their chair, glued their chubby hands to their cheeks and glanced around the room, desperately looking for some kind of exit. At this point they were definitely acting, but the desire to escape was starting to feel very real. Maybe impersonating Ryota Mitarai had rubbed off on them already. They did enjoy when that happened, when the empty vessel that was their identity became coloured by somebody else’s on more than a superficial level. It made them feel so much more real.

‘Chop, chop, Mitarai!’ the mystery woman commanded. The Imposter’s gaze settled on the window. Seemed like a decent escape route. If they could actually fit themself through it, that is…

‘T-time to make my daring escape!’

But it was not to be. When they poked their head out of the room directly in front of them was a beaming woman with slender, milky arms folded over her chest. What was the most instantly striking to them was her hair; her glorious, auburn hair that seemed to absorb all the sun’s light at once, pulled into a long ponytail that cascaded into soft rivulets down her back. Tied up over her powder blue suit was also…an apron? It was becoming more and more likely to the Imposter that this woman was Mitarai’s doctor or nurse, or maybe his maid? Was Mitarai’s family even rich enough to hire a maid? It certainly wasn’t out of the question, considering his vast collection of expensive animating equipment…

But surely he would have told the Imposter that she was coming? Surely he would have also told them that she had strange magic powers that allowed her to teleport from the front door to the window in a matter of seconds? A heads up would have been nice…

‘Huh - wait, what?’ they stammered. ‘Weren’t you at the front door just now? H-how!?’

Their confusion was very real.

The woman grinned happily right in their face. ‘Funny how that works!’

The Imposter ran a hand over their damp forehead, darting their eyes from left to right. There truly was no escape now; Mitarai’s mystery maid had cornered them and was about to abduct them for reasons unknown. They were at least pleased that their disguise was apparently a good one, that this woman who clearly had a pre-existing relationship with the animator was fully convinced that they were the same person. Although, they really never had any doubt in their own ability…

‘Moral of the story?’ she chimed, whipping out what they immediately recognised to be a Hope’s Peak staff card and flashing it in their face. ‘Don’t try to ditch your teacher!’

Bells of sudden realisation chimed in the Imposter’s head as they were seized by the tied and hauled out of the half open window. While on the outside they stammered and babbled and yelped the kind of nonsense that Mitarai would come out with in the same situation, on the inside they were finally able to piece everything together; the mystery woman wasn’t Mitarai’s maid or his doctor, but his teacher. However, interestingly enough, she was a teacher that was bothered enough by Mitarai’s habit of skipping classes to actually come and get him herself. Also interesting was the fact that she was not Koichi Kizakura, which surely meant that she had never actually met Mitarai before. As they were being dragged away by their foot their head was buzzing with a myriad of different thoughts that seemed to blur into each other; how was this petite woman strong enough to move their enormous weight all by herself? Why did Hope’s Peak’s faculty suddenly care about individual students, and what happened to the policy of students being allowed to skip class? How were they going to check on Mitarai that afternoon if they were being forcibly removed from the old student house and made to come to class? How would they make sure he had eaten the sandwich, or, for that matter, eaten anything? How would they check that he hadn’t face-planted onto his keyboard, or gone into cardiac arrest from the mutant cup of coffee had had consumed? Also, being dragged along the floor was actually really, really painful, and _did she just throw a sword at them?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm that was quite a short, filler-y-ish one, soz fam :3 but this chapter was never meant to be a long one, i have long ones planned :D it feels somewhat like i am the only one who still cares abt sagishi and mitarai and dr3 in general, and maybe writing and uploading this fic is a waste of time...but, i mean, i need to scratch my sagamita itch somehow :D so if people are still reading this, even after many weeks of dr3 being over, u r all lovely and i love u <3 <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6

‘ _…I…I can’t…I just c-can’t do this anymore…’_

_Understandable._

_‘I…I c-c-can’t…S-sagi…S-sagishi…all of it… **it’s all my fault!’**_

_There had been so many signs. Signs that he wasn’t coping; that smile he constantly wore which they had learned all those years ago to recognise as a fake, the constant and almost invisible trembling of his hands that they kept silent about, the fact that he somehow seemed to look so much worse every day, despite the fact that he now had a whole island of friends that was looking after him._

_At dinnertime that evening the conversation had turned to the simulation, because the group was still trying to move on. Because Nagito Komaeda appeared to think that the best way to do this was to talk about how hopeful it was that everyone was around to talk about it. Because some of the others hadn’t deemed this as such a bad idea. Because everyone on the island had their own ways of coping with what happened._

**_‘It was under that very table that we found your corpse, Imposter!’_ **

_The animator had turned green and gone rigid in his seat, setting his fork down with a quivering hand and not picking it up again. Only the Imposter and Kamukura seemed to have noticed, and the pair exchanged concerned glances. A while later, when the buzz of chatter at the table was particularly loud, Ryota shot up in his seat in barely concealed urgency and edged out of the room because " I...I need to...do something...I'll...hold on, I'll be back in a s-second!"_

_'Go after him.' Kamukura had instructed a few minutes later, his voice clear and cool. They didn't need to be told twice._

_They looked down at the pitiful, snivelling mess of snot and tears and vomit draped against the toilet bowl, the knuckles one hand stark white as he gripped the rim of the seat desperately. He had been in the bathroom of the old building next to the hotel. Probably didn't want to go to the toilets in the hotel because he was afraid someone might hear him. His body lurched with small convulsions as he continued to retch into the nook of his elbow, the sleeve of his cardigan utterly soaked with tears, his bloodshot eyes plastered open and rimmed with red and purple. He was even more pathetic than when they had first met him all those years ago, when he was still a naïve young student who wanted nothing more than to save the world with his art. When the animator had nothing else, he at least had his dream, he at least had his talent; at least he had hope. Now, he had nothing. He was 22 now; a man. Yet never had he looked more vulnerable, more like a child._

_‘Don’t you understand…I…I-I don’t know how to live with myself…I don’t know h-how I can keep on living…’_

_They fought off a burning resentment because **of course they understood, and how dare he assume that they didn’t?** They understood so much that it hurt them. The animator’s breathing was loud and shallow and too fast for him to pronounce words properly. His eyes suddenly shot open before his body jerked towards the toilet bowl once again and he began dry-heaving. The Imposter sucked in a shaky breath before stooping down to a kneel. The bathroom floor was cold, even through the fabric of Kyosuke Munakata’s trousers. They closed their eyes, desperately fighting off their own tears, and settled one unsteady hand on his back. They could feel each one of his ribs through his clothes._

_‘Ryota…’_

\------------------------------------------------------------------

As it turned out, being forced to go to class by the ever-vibrant, ever-beaming Chisa Yukizome actually enabled the Imposter to visit the animator in his room far more often. In fact, it was because of this development that they gradually started to visit Mitarai every day. They were concerned at first: concerned that they wouldn’t have the time to check that Mitarai was looking after himself properly, that they wouldn’t be able to go off-campus and fetch him food, that they would forget to make him go to sleep before his curfew. But, in fact, going to class allowed them to develop a sort of schedule, to work out in their mind how and when to visit Mitarai while also managing to attend all of their classes. Whereas before they had knocked on the animator’s door rather sporadically, at random times and on random days, they had now gradually gotten themself into the habit of seeing him at mostly fixed times just about every day. Even more promising was the fact that Mitarai seemed to be okay with these timetabled visits; to their relief, he hadn’t yet accused them of being overbearing or condescending.

Of course, maybe this was because he was often so consumed in his work that he simply failed to notice just how often the Imposter was visiting. But it didn’t matter, because they were happy with the situation so long as he was. They were happy that they found themself caring so much about Mitarai’s well-being, that, for once in their life, they had something that made them feel not so empty. They were happy that Mitarai being happy was enough to make them so happy. And, though some part of them loathed to admit it, they did rather enjoy the time spent with their new classmates. Of course, they still played the role of the reserved, flustered Ultimate Animator that would prefer to hide away from the action than to get involved in it, but there was something so oddly endearing about class 77B that they couldn’t help but feel quietly excited when stepping into homeroom every morning.

It was a class of eccentrics and total nut-jobs, of some of the most ridiculous people they had ever encountered in their whole life. Yet, they could see it plainly that none of them were _bad_ people; even Kuzuryuu who put on a good show of being the fearsome and deadly yakuza leader, and Hanamura, whose perverted personality and numerous unwanted sexual advances towards just about every member of the class made them shudder. And that’s not even to mention Tanaka, who, despite his delusional and megalomaniacal ramblings about being the greatest and most powerful being ever to walk the face of the earth, in reality was nothing but a strange boy with a monstrously deep voice and deceptively kind heart, wanting nothing more than to look after his army of small animals. Saionji was a little bully, but an ultimately harmless one who just needed to be kept in check by the stern, maternal Koizumi. Komaeda was…well, they really didn’t know, but they could see that he was a fundamentally good person, despite the often destructive outcomes of his ludicrous luck cycle and his feverish ramblings about hope that they didn’t understand. He was a boy who had been kicked around mercilessly by fate, and it honestly shocked them how poorly the rest of the class often treated him.

They definitely wouldn’t go so far as to say that they considered themself _friends_ with their class, or even that they appreciated their wacky antics on more than a superficial level demanded only by the situation they were in. But being around other people was good for the Imposter; even though they hid behind a Mitarai-shaped façade the whole time, being with the class certainly made them feel better about themself than when they were languishing in their bedroom alone at 1 am, feeling alone and without an identity. They knew that to become attached to any of them would be an exercise in foolishness, and they weren’t going to let that happen. But, there was no doubt that the class was at least entertaining.

They talked about their classmates to Mitarai quite a lot, although not knowingly at first. One evening, after classes had finished for the day, they had gone to the animator’s room to check that he had eaten his lunch, which, that day, he had. Of course, he had been animating non-stop for hours, and his room had been just about pitch black when they stepped in. They told him off again for straining his eyes, to which he replied drowsily that he hadn’t even noticed that the sun had gone down. That day the class had played video games together again, this time without the unwelcome addition of Hanamura’s aphrodisiac-laced stew. They had actually been forced by Mioda to play this time, somehow coming first in a race against Saionji, Nidai, and Tsumiki, who came second, third and fourth respectively. To this, the traditional dancer had called them an obese nerd and punched them in the shoulder hard with fists that looked too tiny to be capable of hurting people but somehow were. Koizumi had yelled at her and given her a bonk on the head before kneeling down next to them and asking with kind eyes whether they were alright.

‘Of course,’ they said amusedly to Mitarai between mouthfuls of chips. ‘To them, I’m you – I’m the type of person who might cry if I got hit, or if someone called me that name. It makes sense why Koizumi would be so concerned about it, you know?’

‘C’mon, I wouldn’t _cry_ …’ came the voice from the chair.

‘You would _definitely_ cry.’

The animator made a moody huffing sound in response. They sniggered quietly. Mitarai, once again, had his back to them with hunched shoulders, his right hand scrawling manically onto his tablet. When he finally spoke again his voice was full of uncertainty.

‘…That girl…she sounds so horrible…I mean, she called you that…that _awful_ name…’

The Imposter smirked. ‘It was all very innocent, really. It’s just how Saionji is.’

‘Right…but…’

They waited patiently for the animator to continue, but he said nothing else for a while. His scribbling paused, then started up again, then paused for longer.

‘…b-but…didn’t you say last week that that other girl made fun of you, too?’

The Imposter furrowed their brow in confusion. ‘What are you talking about? I never said anything like that...’

Mitarai pulled his gaze from the monitors briefly to look back at them over his shoulder. ‘You told me that girl said…said that you have…p-pig fingers or…something like that…and she was making fun of your weight…’ As he spoke his eyes darted to the floor and his voice became quieter and quieter, as if he was somehow worried about insulting them. It suddenly dawned on the Imposter what he was referring to, and they couldn’t stop themself from bursting out laughing.

‘What, Mioda? Gosh, she wasn’t making fun of me! If anything I think she likes how I look…’ They scratched their cheek, chuckling. ‘You know, I think she might have a bit of a thing for me. But that’s an issue for another day, of course.’

Mitarai blushed visibly and his gaze jerked back towards the monitors, his hand resuming to scribble feverishly over the tablet. ‘U-um…okay, if you…if you say so…’ He sounded incredibly unconvinced. The Imposter blinked and set down their bag of chips; it was clear that they needed to educate him.

‘Mitarai, what you should understand about me is that my appearance is a matter of personal choice. I have carefully sculpted my physique to be this way, and it’s not something I am insecure or ashamed about, although most people seem to want me to be.’ They realised that their voice sounded quite stern, which they didn’t mean for it to be. They made sure to sound more relaxed when they spoke again. ‘This means that I’m simply not offended when people like Saionji or Mioda make comments like that; I understand the pragmatic value in having such a physically imposing appearance, and I enjoy how people around me react to it, whether that is negatively or positively.’

Mitarai said nothing again. The room was filled with the infernal humming of his monitors.

‘Do you understand?’ they inquired.

They heard him sigh, but he didn’t move. ‘…W-well…no…honestly…not really…but it doesn’t matter whether I get it or not, does it?’

They smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter if you think it doesn’t matter.’

They knew that Mitarai hadn’t meant what he’d said in a bad way; they knew he hadn’t meant “I don’t understand why you would ever want to be so overweight.” They knew he would never say that. What he hadn’t understood was why the Imposter was okay with being abused by people like Saionji due to their appearance, which was entirely understandable. Mitarai made a small noise of acknowledgement, continuing to draw.

‘You know, Nanami wants to organise a Christmas party for the whole class at some point in the coming weeks,’ they continued.  ‘She’s really changed recently, it’s actually quite unbelievable.’

‘…Is Nanami the gamer?’ came the slightly vacant reply from the chair.

‘That’s the one,’ they spoke, scarfing down another handful of chips. ‘She used to be so shy and detached. We used to talk with each other about how exhausting the rest of them were, but she’s really come into her own since becoming class rep.’

‘But if she finds them all so exhausting, why is she doing so much for them?’

‘I think she’s really grown to like everyone. It’s as if she actually thinks of the class as her friends now.’ They chortled briefly, feeling warm for some reason. ‘It’s rather sweet, when you think about it.’ Mitarai raised his head and stopped drawing for a second.

‘…A-are you going to go? If there is a party, I mean.’

They raised a hand to their chin pensively. ‘I haven’t quite decided yet. Maybe I will, although I can see it being quite…draining…’

Mitarai nodded quietly, his back still turned to them. It was so hard to tell how he was reacting when his facial expression was hidden like that.

‘…I mean, they’re all so ridiculous,’ they continued. ‘I can only imagine what a party scenario with them all will be like…’

‘Yeah…sounds pretty tiring…I probably wouldn’t go...’

‘Well, yes, I know _you_ wouldn’t go, Mitarai,’ they scoffed. ‘Even if Nanami were to put a gun to your head, I doubt you would move from that damn chair.’

Mitarai glanced behind him with a small, sarcastic smile. ‘Very funny.’ They chuckled and folded their arms over their chest.

‘But honestly, it all sounds quite amusing as well,’ they continued, standing up to chuck their empty packet of chips into Mitarai’s waste-paper bin.

‘Right…’

‘There’ll be Souda, who will be trying all evening to catch you-know-who under the mistletoe...’

‘I don’t like Souda…’ Mitarai cut in, his voice agitated, unsettled. ‘I mean he keeps going after the princess girl…So…Son-’

‘Sonia,’ they supplied promptly.

‘Yeah, her.... I _hate_ guys who harass women like that. She clearly doesn’t like him back…’

The Imposter blinked at the surprisingly strong reaction from the animator. ‘…Yeah, he’s pretty annoying, but he’s just a massive idiot; harmless really. I probably make him sound much worse than he is…’

Mitarai said nothing. Again. They cleared their throat, deciding to continue talking.

‘…And regarding the food, I feel like I’ll have to compete with Owari and Nidai constantly, and I could do without that.’

‘Uh huh…’ he murmured quietly in response, his eyes glued to his screens.

‘But I feel like I’d quite like to go, for whatever reason,’ they chortled, not quite understanding what they were saying or why in the world they were saying it. ‘They’re all absolute lunatics, but I’ve spent enough time with them to know that they’re decent people as well…’ They recited the lines they had said to themself in their head dozens of times by now, and was once again filled with a sort of warmth that they couldn’t identify. It felt so calming to say those words out loud to somebody, to the one person in the whole world who knew who they were without their mask. ‘It’s not like I’m prepared to trust them or rely on them in any way, but they have this way of making me feel less...void. I never felt that way in Byakuya Togami’s class…’

Mitarai set his pen down slowly and swivelled in his chair to face them for the first time that afternoon, folding himself into a cross legged position on the seat, which made the Imposter felt like they were about to receive some kind of counselling. He wore a small smile which they noted didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes, and both hands were clasped in his lap, one thumb running itself over the other repeatedly. If they were any less observant they would have missed it, but as the Ultimate Imposter they constantly relied on their exceptional ability to pick up on other people’s habits and behaviour.

‘You seem really happy,’ he cocked his head to the side slightly. ‘I’m glad you feel so close to your classmates, that you have friends…’

They held up one palm, causing the boy’s sentence to trail off. ‘I don’t feel close to them, and they’re _definitely_ not my friends.

Mitarai’s eyes darted to the floor, that smile frozen on his lips. ‘Are you sure? I mean…at the moment they’re all you ever talk about...’

The Imposter was taken aback, heat unexpectedly flooding their cheeks. They furrowed their brow. ‘I-I don’t think that’s accurate at all. Do you really think that?’

Mitarai laughed breathily, his eyes never leaving the floor, his finger lifting to itch at his cheek before magnetically falling back to play with his other hand even more aggressively than before. ‘A little bit, yeah. I don’t mind though; I’m glad! Really, I am! It’s good that have such a good time with them all!’

Excited chills ran down their spine; they were so confused, but somehow so comforted at the same time; hearing Mitarai affirm their blurry and uncertain feelings of attachment to their classmates felt strangely wonderful and wonderfully strange. But they still didn’t know themself if these feelings were at all real or just the result of their loneliness. They knew that people, in general, were bad news. But as long as the Imposter was hidden behind a disguise, they also knew like they could remain detached enough to not let themself get hurt; after all, they had done it time and time again with all manner of personalities who had entered their life. They wanted to allow themself to enjoy their classmates’ company, yet every rational thought in their mind was urgently telling them not to. On top of this, the fact that they were able to feel so conflicted about their relationships with other people was filling them with that fleeting sense of identity they got from taking care of Mitarai. They could only flash a half smile at the animator.

‘I…hm…’ Words wouldn’t form on their lips, and they coughed into their hand, their mind desperately trying to piece together a sentence. ‘Erm…thank you, I suppose. B-but I said it once and I’ll say it again, I don’t feel _close_ to them, per se…’

Mitarai’s smile, as the seconds passed, was starting to look more and more plastic. He had begun literally scratching at his other hand using his nails, picking at the subsequently peeling skin and leaving sore-looking red marks. Something about how he was acting was incredibly bizarre, though they just couldn’t figure out what it was; he acted nervous so often that it was almost impossible to identify one brand of nervousness from another.

‘Are you…Mitarai, are you alright?’ they asked hesitantly, standing up from the bed once again and pacing to Mitarai’s chair.

Mitarai’s smile and eyes widened even more and he tore his hands apart, planting one in his hair and the other onto the desk behind him. He looked directly up at them but didn’t quite make eye contact.

‘Yes! Yes, I’m a-alright! Are you?’

‘…I’m…’ They sighed, pressing their lips together; if there was anything wrong with the boy, they didn’t see that they would be able to tease it out of him, not with the way he was behaving right now.

‘…I’m fine, yes.’

Mitarai nodded sharply in acknowledgement before turning back to his monitors and picking up his stylus once again. Despite their unease with how he was behaving, there was one thing they couldn’t help but feel pleased about:

‘…You know, you’re looking much healthier lately.’

The animator’s body seemed to go rigid and he blinked, his eyes darting to the Imposter.

‘You think?’

They smiled as warmly as they knew how.

‘I do.’

Mitarai repeatedly tapped his stylus lightly against the wood of his desk and blushed.

‘…W-well…I’ve been trying really hard recently...’ he spoke bashfully. They couldn’t tell if he was proud of himself or embarrassed that the Imposter would bring such a thing up so unexpectedly. Probably the latter.

‘I know, I’ve noticed. I’m really pleased.’

He really was looking better; his dark eye bags had all but disappeared, and the hollows in his cheeks were beginning to look less pronounced. His skin and hair weren’t looking quite so neglected, so grey and dehydrated; he had been drinking water and eating proper food, at least sometimes, and he looked so much better for it. They had noticed that his speech was so much less slow and fragmented than it had been when the pair first met, and, when he wasn’t fretting for whatever silly reason, he acted so much more comfortable and confident around them. They felt so proud that this progress was the result of the pair’s combined efforts. They felt proud of themself that they had been able to do right by the boy. They felt proud of _him_ for his new-found quiet dedication to self-improvement.

The animator blushed, dipping his head with an awkward smile. ‘A-alright, _mom…’_

The word caused alarms to start blaring in the Imposter’s head, but they quickly relaxed when they realised that the animator wasn’t calling them “mom” to express his annoyance with them; he was being playful, sarcastic; he was joking around. They grinned and placed a hand on his back.

‘I should go; it’s nearly 9, and according to Yukizome I actually need to start doing homework.’ They chortled into their hand. ‘Can you believe that?’

Mitarai giggled softly, turning back to his monitors. ‘Right…well, I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess...’

The Imposter said one last goodbye before going to open the door. Then they were stopped by the animator’s voice behind them.

‘H-hey, Sagishi?’ he called, his voice unsteady.

They turned to face him once more; he had pushed his chair away from his desk and was now directly behind the Imposter, looking up at them with eyes that somehow looked pleading, desperate.

‘What’s up?’

He blinked nervously and ran his nails through his mop of hazelnut hair.

‘I…u-um…’

They waited patiently for him to articulate his sentence, but for a long time nothing came. They saw all the tell-tale signs that he was uneasy; feverishly fiddling with anything and everything, eyes darting to the floor or to the side, a small blush creeping over his cheeks. But, again, they couldn’t identify what type of anxiety this was. Finally, he sucked in a deep breath and clenched his trembling fists, raising his head to meet the Imposter’s gaze.

‘P-please, be careful!’

Wait.

Huh?

The Imposter blinked and furrowed their brow because _what the hell did that even mean?_ Be careful of _what?_ As the seconds went by their head began to fill with all sorts of possible answers, each one contributing to a sickly, plummeting feeling in their stomach. Meanwhile, Mitarai was sitting in his chair, still cross-legged, chewing uncontrollably on his lower lip and picking his fingernails. When his teeth drew blood he hissed a curse word under his breath and jerked a hand to his mouth. The area around one of his nails was also bleeding lightly due to picking too far into the skin. They let out a shaky breath.

‘…Mitarai, what does that mean? ‘Be careful’ because I am the Ultimate Imposter and it’s unfair of me to participate in the class? Because I’m basically just lying to them? Because it is wrong for me to…to _exploit_ them like that?’

Their voice been stern at first, but had gradually descended into sounding pathetic, emotional. They inwardly scolded themself for letting that happen.

Mitarai suddenly looked mortified and jumped off his chair, stumbling across the room to the Imposter frantically, yelping as he almost tripped over one of the legs of his desk.

‘N-no! No, _God,_ no, that’s not what I meant at all!’ he cried in the Imposter’s face, gripping their vast forearms almost hard enough for it to hurt. ‘I meant to be careful b-because of _me_! Because the person you are pretending to be i-is _me_!’

Heat prickled over their shoulders, down their spine, into the soles of their feet.

‘…What are you even talking about?’

Mitarai looked deeply uncomfortable and licked at the blood on his lower lip, wincing as he swallowed it down. This looked like an attempt to buy himself some time more than anything else. He had gone bone-pale, the same pale that he had been when they had found him in the hall all that time ago.

‘…L-look,’ he mumbled, averting his gaze from the Imposter’s. ‘I wouldn’t be alone in saying that I was _not_ a popular child…or a popular teenager…well I guess I’m _still_ an unpopular teenager, but…’

The Imposter said nothing.

‘I…other kids didn’t get me…they didn’t understand my…my obsession with anime and my drive to create it…and, well, sure, some of them would _act_ like they were my friends but then…’

He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes shut, as if he was trying to blot out a dark memory. The Imposter inhaled deeply; they felt terrible for having assumed the worst, for thinking that Mitarai had been warning them against getting too close. They had half presumed that the animator was trying to make them back off, was telling them to stop taking part in the class because their whole identity was a lie and it wasn’t fair on the others; on Mioda, who was fast becoming attached to them and may or may not have certain feelings for them. On Koizumi, who had been genuinely concerned when Saionji hit them. On Nanami, who was trying her best to make ‘Ryota Mitarai’ feel included and welcome, despite his shy and flustered personality.

Maybe they had just been projecting their own guilt and imposter-related insecurities onto the animator. Probably.

‘So…you’re worried…because you think that my class are going to treat me like your schoolmates treated you?’

Mitarai didn’t react for a few seconds, but then nodded bitterly, his eyes glued to the floor.

‘And you’re concerned because Mioda and Saionji were talking about my weight, and you think they were doing it in a cruel way?’

‘Sagishi…I’m not a…well I’m not a very likable person, I guess. Well…you know, past experience has proven that I’m not…past experience from _every_ _single_ _school_ I’ve been to…and I don't want you to get hurt or...or picked on...or made fun of just because you're pretending to be me...’

Their heart broke for a second because he _was_ a likable person. Yes, he was naïve and idiotic and oftentimes delusional. He was too obsessed with one thing, he was a bit of a brat, and he didn’t know how to behave like a functional human being. But, hey; they didn’t know how to be a functional human being either. And the animator had proven himself to have so many positive traits; that glorious, burning ambition that pushed him every day to make outstanding art. That dry, witty sense of humour that only showed itself ever so occasionally. That sense that he was truly a decent, kindhearted person, who had been trying his best to make himself healthier to satisfy the Imposter. They breathed out silently, smiling, reaching out to the animator’s hair to move a stray piece out of his eyes.

‘You have nothing to worry about.’

Mitarai looked up at them sadly.

‘My classmates…well, _your_ classmates…are good people. They are all morons, but…but they’re not capable of doing to me what those terrible children in your past did to you.’

Because at Hope’s Peak every single student was exceptional, abnormal, eccentric; they had to be. Because Mitarai had been an exceptional child in an environment that promoted the ordinary, the mundane.

‘And…even if they did end up betraying me…’ they sucked in a breath and clenched their fists at their side. ‘…I am the Super High School Level Imposter. And they can’t touch me. _Nobody_ can.’

Without another word, Mitarai’s arms flew around the Imposter’s middle. They felt his breathing slow and deep against their stomach. They closed their eyes, wrapped their arms around his tiny body and pulled him close.

Nobody could hurt them.

Apart from the only one in the whole world who knew who they really were.

Apart from _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said a few chapters ago that this would keep the ryota suffering to a minimum but like...all the dude does in his whole story line is fucking suffer so, ya know, its kinda hard :'/ and i call bullshit on the idea that he was fine after hope arc just because he finally had friends. like...sorry...no way. and no way would all the remnants be back to normal. i have a fuckton of detailed headcanons abt how they are after waking up and those will all come into play later in the story.  
> also i don't hate souda. souda is my favourite character in the dr franchise. had to make that clear :3  
> next chapter will be very sweet, very fluffy, very warm because soon this will align with episode 5 and i think i need a breather before writing any more suffering :''0000  
> but episode 5 does mean the introduction of tsumiki so HYPE


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